The hermit relaxes even further, as you settle and let your ingredients begin to sizzle upon coals and ash. A late breakfast or an early lunch? Masto the hound sniffs the air, an approval of whatever the mysterious flesh it is that you’ve donated to the cause.
Surprisingly, the bread is quite good, and the cheese though hard as stone, has a lively tang hidden beneath a thick and crusty rind. It should all turn out to be a rather tasty combination.
Jeovanna and Dain may be of few words, but hunters and trackers know how to read signals, be they broken twigs, the sounds of scurrying animals, or an elderly man’s facial expression and tone.You have little doubt that he is being honest with you. Beneath the facts though, probably lie regrets and pains that one doesn’t just share with passers by. He has lost something along the way, that much you can be sure of.
He is pleased with the ranger’s understanding, and smiles at the tiefling’s young-hearted wisdom. It is then that the half-orc speaks of their northwards journey.
“It seems none of us truly know where we are going then,” he says not unkindly. “It is better that way, to savour the walk, rather than obsess with one’s destination. I should probably tell you that northwards is unwise, convince you to tread some other way, but all have their reasons. At least… you have safety of numbers and the liveliness of youth. Also…” he looks towards Otiroth, poking and turning meat, “a rather good cook. Smells very nice!”
“So what takes you northwards? I try not to pry, but curiosity has got the better of me. Off to serve in a battle to protect soon to be besieged settlements perhaps? Or family, family calls? There must be duty in what you do, to take such risk.”
“They are ugly, the beasts that come. Searching. Feeding. Clever. Varied. Beware those with a broken red stripe on their back, even the small ones.”
The man hesitates a moment, as though contemplating revealing something further, when a sharp wind gusts through the trees and a swirl of leaves and grit cuts through the air. It lasts only a moment, until once again all is still.
“The Sands blows upon us, and each time a little stronger.”
Thankfully, for now Magaw is still safely perched atop his well-placed staff, listening in, and you can probably almost make out a grin on his "face".