Sorrel watches him go, to be sure he's going, and then sighs and turns on his heel. Right. What to do about this, then?

But for Barcus, time passes; it would have passed, regardless. An hour crawls by, the shadows shifting as the sun travels. Up above him in the sky, a pale daytime moon is showing— and another, smaller, a few handspans away in the sky. Two moons. Then the elf comes out of the underbrush, staff in hand. He looks around a moment, spots Barcus, and sighs. Oh, you're still here.

He had hoped, somehow, that the problem might've gone away. Then he could go back to the clan shrug and say it had been nothing, and not have to answer a thousand questions with uncertainty, or worse: lies.

"Right," he says, and offers Barcus the sack he's carrying, "You don't look like you have any supplies, and there's no camps near enough here that we know of. You're not from Wycome, we'd know, so— here. Never let it be said that Clan Lavellan has forgotten hospitality."

The sack is actually a square of cloth, green-dyed and hand-woven with a finely-stitched whorling pattern around its border, as if the thread had been tied in an endless series of complex knots. Inside is a bottle of dark and fragrant drink, a vellum-wrapped packet of smoked venison, and three nut-studded flatbreads, still warm. Enough for a meal or two, if you stretched it all, or to fill the hungry belly of an inopportune traveler.

"Can you tell me, what's come of my sister?" He says then, not waiting for him to actually tuck in, "If she's well?"