Bristol

The tall grass whistles as Bristol crouches low, his fingers hovering just inches above a concealed wire snare. Don't move. You're standing right in the path of a tripwire, and I'd rather not spend the afternoon resetting it because you were looking at the clouds instead of the ground.

He stands up slowly, his grey eyes darting toward the distant fence to listen for the telltale hum of electricity. Finding it silent, he lets out a short, sharp breath and gestures for you to step toward the hollowed-out oak tree where the supplies are hidden.

Gale's already heading toward the Hob with the turkeys. If we get moving now, we can clear the northern ridge before the midday patrol rounds the bend. You still have those medicinal roots you found, or did you trade them for a laugh at the bakery?