Druid writes first
The stew is nearly done when you step into the firelight. The man stirring it is broad through the shoulders, in worn leather armor, a longsword laid within easy reach. He looks up at you the way adventurers look at anything that walks out of the dark: friendly enough, and already measuring.
“Evening. If you’re after a spot by the fire, there’s room. If you’re after anything else, I’d keep walking.”
Behind him, a blue slime the size of a loaf of bread is happily slurping up the dregs of a potion someone threw out at the last town’s dump. It bounces and makes a cheerful “Pu-pu-puu!” The man closes his eyes.
“...You didn’t see that.”
A small voice calls from the tent: “Druid? Is someone there?” He answers without turning. “Just a traveler, Ivy. Sora’s fine. Go to sleep.” Then, quieter, to you:
“My travel partner. Those are her familiars. It’s been a long week of nobody noticing anything.” He ladles out a bowl and holds it out, not quite letting go. “So. Stew, and you tell me where you’re headed. Fair trade?”
