The Coast Way

Aiwë looks uneasily at the two members camped a distance off. She decides to say nothing. The rest of the group are smart enough to be wary of strangers while on the run from assassins and ambushers.

She pauses, obviously struggling to decide if she should rest, or make the party continue. Finally she relents and lays Keggruk down, her muscles screaming at the effort required to keep the massive armoured man from hitting the ground hard.

"I'll take next watch," she murmurs, and sits by the fire.

Aiwë spends her watch with her eyes on the trees, and her handpan drum on her lap. The lilting murmur of Elvish lullabies and the barest music from the metal drum drifts through camp, soothing stressed minds and muscles alike. As the others wake early in the morning they find that Aiwë woke first, and has been busy. Keggruk has been relieved of his armour and wrapped carefully in his bedroll. She has done the same for Dieter, making the two bodies a little less obtrusive to the party and more protected from the elements. Aiwë carries her pack, Keggruk's pack, and Keggruk himself, and strings a makeshift package of Keggruk's armour tied carefully in his cloak around Archer's shoulders.

"Let me know if he gets tired," she tells Ossein. "...Does he get tired?"

She turns to the group. Her eyes are dull and her manner placid. Not words anyone would guess could be applied to Aiwë. "Let's eat while we walk. There's a long way to go, get."

Imoen is glad to wake up and greet her friends. "Gooood morning! Hi, Stella! It's so good to see you! I wish we could sink into that hotpool again. Oh, my poor feet..."

She ignores Dieter's corpse, other than to glance at it once and wipe away a tear. She seems determined to have a good time with her friends.

Oddly enough, Imoen is joined by Xzar in her cheerful greetings. The mage skips about the encampment, beaming at everyone. "Smiles, everyone, smiles! This is like some great fantasy!" This morning his accent is rather nasal.

Montaron grumbles at Aiwe's declaration that they'll eat breakfast on the march. In that, at least, he seems like a normal halfling. But with everyone else starting to move and prepare, he's left with little choice but to follow their lead or be left behind. Decision made, he quickly and efficiently breaks camp.

Wirrow wakes up feeling rather well, all things considered. She'd been afraid Aiwe would push them all further last night, and while Wirrow normally preferred the night, she also preferred to stop travelling when exhaustion reared its head.

She doesn't argue with any of Aiwe's calls for food or travel, though it is certainly disconcerting to see the girl acting so out of character. Hopefully they'd be able to fix the issue of Keggruk's death sooner rather than later and that would snap her out of it. Wasn't that the Runeson paladin's idea for taking Dieter's body with them? Wirrow can't remember exactly, given that she tends to avoid him.

Wirrow grabs her stuff and is ready to leave and lead, since no one else seems the type to be able to do it. Except Aiwe and Stella, but Aiwe was a bit distracted, and Stella was probably better at night. There was also the benefit that if she spent the whole time guiding, she'd have an excuse to not talk to anyone. The two odd individuals who seemed to have also invited themselves along for the journey... she'd be keeping an eye on them when she could.

The previous night, Stella was incredibly relieved at Wirrow and Aiwë's return. Seeing Kregguk's body, it now made more sense why she left. But comets and meteors, did Aiwë carry the orog and his full plate armor all this way?

She was concerned at Imoen's arrival, but her cheer did seem to infect Stella. Normally Aiwë did that, but...she wouldn't be herself for quite some time, Stella feared.
"We are not going to kill random people out here," Stella scolds quietly. "Though I do think it'd be wise for you, Wirrow, to scout ahead in case they are dangerous."

"We go around," Aiwë says. "Far around. We don't want to be seen by anyone." She glances sideways at the two strange men. Where had they even come from? At least they with with them and following, instead of running of to tell others about them or leading them into a trap.

Montaron looks disappointed. "But there ain't even none of them Flamin' Fists around..." he mutters. He turns to meet Aiwe's glance. "And if this fire be made by that armored one? 'Twould be better to know, no?"

Aiwë opens her mouth to say no, but stops. If it is their pursuers, they may need to change course more than just a wide arc. "Yes," she sighs.

"Flaming fists?" Stella asks Montaron with a cocked eyebrow. "What do you mean? Like...martial artists that wield fire, or like...flying, combustible, disembodied hands? And are they usually around?"

The grumpy halfling stares at Stella for a long minute. "Ain't from around here, then. Baldur's Gate's standing army of mercenaries. They're a sour bunch, policin' the city and places about." He snorts and then spits a green wad into the dirt between Stella's boots. "There be an outpost of 'em at the Inn, so ye'll see soon enough."

"Careful where you're spitting." Wirrow gives a sidelong glower at the unsavory man, before turning to her friends. "I'll go on ahead to look, then. Should I come back here, or are you going to be moving on regardless?"

Montaron scowls at Wirrow's reprimand. "I warrant your attention?! Oh frabjous day, callooh callay!" His sarcasm is overly blunt. His eyes narrow dangerously. "Leave me be, lest your head leave yer neck."

"We'll stay. Come back quickly."

Aiwë turns to Montaron. "You," she growls, orcish accent returning thick, "will be civil and palatable. Care for your own neck before you eye anyone else's."

"I'm afraid he doesn't bathe often enough to be 'palatable', my dear. You ask too much of poor Monty." Xzar pats the halfling brute on the top of the head.

"Hmf." Wirrow turns away, muttering. "L̶̙͆e̸͌͜a̷̤̔v̶̞̚e̵͔̊ ̴͙͝h̷̝͝e̴͙͋r̷̠͘ ̶͖̂ȁ̵̝l̷̛̫o̶̥̓n̸̻͗ȇ̶̟,̴̻͑ ̶̜̅l̴͚͒e̵͕̽s̸͎̾t̸̩͘ ̸̫͒y̴͕̅o̴̧͑ṵ̷̋ ̷͈̎g̷̗͑e̴͈̐t̵̰̃ ̵͓̋ÿ̸̦ò̷̭ű̸̺r̴̰͝ ̷̭̓t̶͉̏h̴͔̐r̶͉̓o̸̫͂a̴̢̕t̷͕͗ ̸̤̂r̴͚̆ĭ̵̻p̸̛̫p̶̻͌ë̶̝́d̵̥̈́ ̵̱̓o̴̖͆u̴͇̽t̷̨̊.̴̩̒"

She then feels a vague bit of magic wash over her, and she gives a nod and a faint smile to Aiwe before continuing on her way.

Montaron glares venomous daggers up at Xzar. "Do not make light of me! My purpose is greater than you can imagine!"

He shrugs away from both wizard and bard, but not without muttering to Aiwe:

"Sleep lightly, taskmaster."