Spoiler: OOC
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Yeah, it wouldn't let me in without an invite.


Kellon himself slips down the hill, but his shell only seems to serve as a sled on top of the vile sludge. He is thankful that he cannot feel its disgusting muck on his hard shell like he can in the sensitive webbing between his toes. He says nothing in response to her question, lacking a single clue to answer truthfully.

While there is some small comfort to be found in finally establishing the position of the sun, the sky feels... wrong. The colors are muted, choked, and stifled by the oppressive atmosphere of this country. They approach the campfire, apprehensive about confronting the hunters from earlier.

It seems as though coldbloods are not the only unwanted guests in these lands. Kellon had never heard an elf referred to as a "duskie", but the term did not sound flattering at all. He spreads his arms wide, showing that he is unarmed. His voice speaks with confidence, his tone measured like a sermon. "I am Kellon, herald of the Tempest." The bronze of his trident-headed amulet gleams in the firelight. "I am a tortle; my folk are of the ocean isles. That is why I am lost. Our ship wrecked in a foul storm and we have been stranded in this strange country." He looks pointedly around at the sky. "I can see why you call upon Lathander in a place of such vile mist and feeble light. Tell me, what happened to the other hunter? Andri, his name was? He was not hurt by the wolves, was he?" Perhaps if Kellon shows that he is no threat, these landlubbers will tell them where they are.