Tracker found himself drifting back into consciousness. There was some sort of noise, someone wanting something. He turned himself over. The voice persisted, poking and pricking at the side of a flicking ear. With time it did not cease. He turned to his side, opening his eyes. He saw a shape, something shaped like Myer, blotches in the background that looked like the others. Myer spoke, words falling on waking ears.

“... Breakfast…” Was the lone word he heard.

A female voice, the Kobold, Misme came over to him as well, “He is so nice! He got up so early to make this for us!”

Tracker's eyes sharpened. He focused on the colors in the peripheral. He saw Misme and Nihlah flanking Jorgen. Nihlah was loudly announcing different muscles of the arm, pressing a needle into Jorgens arm, this seemed even a bit cruel for her- He saw him curling his fingers. Jorgen seemed to not notice nor care, talking with a grimacing Misme. He wondered how Nihlah knew where she was putting that needle.

Across from them he saw Ruach. He was a wreck the last time he saw him. There were bloody bandages across his entire chest, blood soaking into the bedding. He could barely lift an arm or turn his head. He now sat upright, his bandages were clean, he was lapping from a bowl filled with something red. Carrie was sat right next to him, complaining about the smell of “medicine”, she was scribbling in her journal, recounting the events of last night to him.

He couldn’t tell if the room was a mess or not. Towards the center of the room a mountain of trash, splinters, dirt, and whatever else had been on the floor last night was swept together. Blood had dried, staining the wood, no dust though. The dormer had been annihilated, the wall next to it not doing much better. An admittedly nice breeze was let in through it though.

In front of Tracker was Myer, patiently waiting. He was just about arced over, slow moving, looking generally exhausted. Big black bags hung below his eyes. In one hand he held a bowl (Still steaming), in the other a cup. Tracker tentatively pulled himself up, reaching for and receiving the goods. He spoke.

“Thank you-”

Myer cut him off, “Don’t worry, heard from the others that you don’t eat meat.”

“... Yes, that is right.”

He took a sip from the bowl. It was hot, nice. He didn’t let it rest on his palate for long, swallowing quickly. He was surprised, for as short of a taste it was it was good. He went back for another sip, contemplating it; it was earthy, hints of something bitter but well placed, very nice. He took a sip from the cup, something sweet, refreshing. He found himself disagreeing less with Myers' food choices- Unsure he would be as ravenous for floor meat though. He gave a compliment.

“This is good. Where did you learn how to cook?”

He responded, “Just grew up with good food, learned a little on how to prepare it from there.”

“Hmph. We’ve got to keep you behind a stove… I don’t think you’d be half bad as a tracker as well.”

He perked up, “Huh? Why?”

Tracker snickered, “I’ve been with you for less than a week now, yet without fail you have always sniffed out where the danger is. It’s a blessed skill really.”

Myer groaned, walking away, exclaiming equally with his voice and his sky grasping arms, “I’m cursed!”

Myer threw himself into a mass of bedding, returning to sleep.