Pyry was still dirty from the incident. He was doing his tasks mechanically, drowned in his own thoughts.
Weasels attacking a caravan? Would they be really starving that much? Three weasels he killed himself, each on the first, well-balanced strike. He should learn to control his strength, because in the fervor of battle he mauled them and the skins were useless. But it was over now, and he was only grazed. Thanks to Ainon, the never-talking elf, even that wouldn’t be a problem. How did this elf manage with so few hours of sleep? And that wolf-howl he cried… There were stories of evil men becoming wolves. But Ainon looked too gentle and too slow-acting for that. He also believes in the Caregiver. Surely he is an accomplished hunter… or one of those minstrels who can imitate everything.
Pyry felt empathy for Volmar. He also looks frail, like himself. Strong he is though, throwing that weasel in the open flame. Kept his ground well too.
At the first opportunity I must skin these creatures, he thought, at least the ones that can be sold. The rest, hm, from the rest I will keep the heads for a day or two. Something tells me they might be useful.
He bit his bread hungrily. The weasel blood in his clothes didn’t bother him at all. What did sadden him was that he wanted to talk to his companions, and hear from them. But they were both reserved. And he knew too well that his manners were not always accepted by the Frithlanders. Many conversations he started in the past ended in shoutings… or in fights.
He drank from his flask in silence, saddened, yet looking around expectantly, hoping somebody would tell him of things and places he didn’t know.