"Couldn't hurt. Give us some time away to prepare and..." Vala glances at Loog, but it's only a flicker, barely perceptible, and the bandit doesn't notice "less chance of something happening in the night. I'd feel safer outside of the camp than in it, but we should probably stay here for at least one night. Too late to really start traveling now," She pauses, before adding "not all of us have magic elf vision."

You're left alone for the most part as night falls. There's a brief invite extended to Sam - and only to Sam, apparently - to join some of the others for food, but otherwise the Blacktalons keep their distance, perhaps warned off from starting anything more, and the Chill don't come around aside from a guard shift rotation on the north gate and the central tents.

Night passes loudly. The sounds of the forest are drowned out by bandits who drink, sing and brawl until dawn. When not out murdering merchants for their wares, they seem almost normal, but the knowledge that they'll be back out hunting down innocents before long isn't ever far from the mind. Vala's up in the morning, before dawn does come, and has already prepared a small breakfast - cold meat sandwiches to eat on the go. She seems quite eager to be away, and though her pace may not be necessarily hurried, she still heads for the exit a little faster than a standard pace, not giving voice to her concerns but nevertheless they're clear. The scorching heat of yesterday has given way to another summer day of sun and clear skies - warm, yes, but not oppressive like yesterday, and as long as you stay somewhat near shade there's little chance of overheating.

Loog doesn't accompany you, leaving you with little more than the poorly drawn map to go on. Still, Caelyn manages to locate the trail the animal trail that the scouts used without much difficult and soon enough you're pressing through the woods with speedy abandon.

Your first hour passes quietly, but a short while into the second hour of your trek you hear the clanging of metal on metal. Not a fight, instead it's got the rolling sound of something clanging around a can or metal box. Through the bushes you see a scaled humanoid, not entirely dissimilar to Sam in build, though with a clear hunch in his back. Whereas Sam's scales are pristine and carefully tended however, this dragonblooded person is less so - their original colour and sheen has faded, possibly with age if its long whiskers trailing from his mouth and chin are any indication. Whatever their original colour, his scales are a muted grey, bereft of any shine or glimmer. He's dressed in a dirty brown robe of cheap material, edges frayed around his clawed feet and is sat on an old wooden crate which creaks under his weight. A closer look at his eyes show them to be clouded over, and you can't be sure if he can even see or notices you approaching. "Alms, alms for the poor," he calls out in a deep baritone, cracked and hoarse with age. He rattles the small tin, with what sounds like a single coin inside - the source of the sound you heard before. Then again, after a few moments. "Alms, alms for the poor." Were he on the streets of a city he wouldn't look out of place as any other beggar, his only really noticeable features being his draconic lineage and the fact that he's not in a city.