Laying out his bedroll in the sheltered area, Richard sits, propping himself against an upright support. Looking up at the colours fading in the night sky he breathes deeply, savouring the smells and, without thinking, locking them in his mind.
Closing his eyes he listens to the subtle sound of nature, the rhythmic pacing of the stoic dragonborn and the slurps of his cheerful halfling companion.
With a tone more appropriate for the time of night, rumbling gently in his chest, he speaks to no-one in particular,
"Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast."
With that, he settles in for the night, content in his surroundings.