Though it galls him to do so, Oliver takes shelter in one of the wagons, relaxing his old bones into the comfort of a seat with a sigh. He is snappish, equal parts guilty, ashamed and defensive about his choice. Though, like Nurthk, Oliver is glad to have a large assortment of books. His bristling brows and knobby fingers are all that is visible of him for some time.
As the wagon train trundles to a halt, he clambers down the side in his stiff, spry way. He cranes his thin neck to see what has stirred the attention of the others. Shoulda been watching instead of burying my nose in that book. Tourne has a ...colorful history. Embroidered, more like. His mouth twists as pats Whistler. As the old man untethers the fine crossbow lashed to the tall horse's saddle, Whistler turns his fine-boned head around and regards Oliver passively, ears flicking alternately toward the empty camp. A low whicker rumbles in the horse's throat and chest.
Oliver glowers and readies the crossbow, checking the draw of daggers and swords as he moves steadily over to the site to stand alongside the others.
OOC:
Knowledge Nature (smell): 26 ACED!
Knowledge Nature (creatures): 14
Knowledge Geography (hoping for Tourne clues, maybe from book): 7
Knowledge History (hoping for Tourne clues, maybe from book): 24
Spot: 19
Listen: 20