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Lady of Graves! thinks Guillame to himself, troubled by curiosity mixed with deep unease. I was joking, but for her, is no joke I think! She is quite serious about the bodies, e'?!

Guillame reaches for his pipe automatically, for reassurance, before he remembers the tobacco situation, which now seems more dire than before. He frowns again, and he ponders Crytalis's question for a while, giving her wary sideways glances.

"I think..." he says eventually. "...my eyes did not deceive me. I am keen of eye. And as for lost loveurs, well of course there are some of those..." Here he smirks, and bobs his head from side to side a little, in a smug fashion. "But I do not think they have gone to the Boneyard, e'? So then, it is someone who can disappear in a moment, and reappear when they want to, non? Is their choice to appear to me, and then disappear again - poof! So I think, is someone who likes the tricks!"

Satisfied with his judgment, Guillame cups his hands around his mouth so as to call out far and wide.

"Is very funny!" he cries out to the forest. "Is a good trick, e'? But is a little cowardly I think to hide in the bushes! Show yourself! Is the bad manners not to introduce oneself to fellow travellers, non? Very rude, non?"

Guillame waits only a moment for a response, then spits into the rotting foliage, as if to say "Just what I thought...". "Is probably a gnome." he mutters. "The gnome is notorious for playing the tricks long after they are not funny anymore. Is well-known."

Meanwhile...

Guillame smooths his moustache and squats down to study the trampled grass.

"Is curious, non?" he muses to Grognon, his dark-maned travelling companion. "Heavy boots, a fire, deep prints, I would say ... a small company, of armed men. They broke camp this morning, they go that way perhaps, and yet..." He stands, lifting the wide brim of his hat to stare across the grassy plain. "Where to hide in this bare land? There is nowhere. Is mysterious, e'?"

Grognon, implacable and silent, lowers his head to graze a little, then looks up and away from Guillame, surveying the plain, as if bored. Guillame, annoyed, narrows his eyes.

"Hm. So you are still not talking to me, e'? It makes no difference to me. No difference at all! So, we shall be silent. Silence complete. Very good." Guillame walks away, feigning indifference.

Grognon continues his steady stare across the plain. Guillame grumpily fills his pipe.

In a minute, Guillame is squirming with the urge to say more. He turns back to his horse, pointing his pipe for emphasis. "You know Grognon, I know patience. I am one who can bear silence. You do not know this, but I once went three weeks without speaking to a living soul! Three weeks! Like the monks on the mountain, e'? Like the prisoner in the pit! It is easy for one strong of will, such as myself."

Warming to his theme, Guillame struts a little, wagging a gloved finger, and puffing out his chest."You do not understand, because horses are stupid, non? Cheval obstiné! Not a snicker from you, e'? No whinny, no neigh? Always so superior you are, as if... " Guillame pauses his building diatribe, his eye fixing on the ground once more. He crouches, then creeps slowly eastwards a few paces, moving from tuft of grass, to mud patch, to low bush.

"Ohoho!" he says to Grognon, annoyance apparently forgotten. "More tracks, Grognon, you see? Lighter, much lighter, and heading away from the others. A woman?" His eyes light up, and he smiles a crinkled smile, turning to look Grognon directly in the eyes. "A damsel, perhaps?"

Grognon cocks an ear, then turns away again unconcerned. Guillame puffs busily on his pipe, eyes narrowed, arms folded, considering his options.

“Well, a choice now, Grognon. A parting of the ways, e'? We go to the men, that is perhaps the way of safety in numbers. But ... perhaps they are bandits, and we go to our deaths, many against two. Or we go to the woman, we find out why she flees from many men. Perhaps there is danger? Perhaps she is needing help?”

He gives Grognon a sidelong glance. "Perhaps she is needing help, we help, perhaps she is grateful e'? Like in the tales! Perhaps she has wine? Perhaps she, unlike a horse I know, knows the art of conversation, non? Never was a choice so easy to make!"

Without delay, Guillame taps his pipe out, strings his bow, mounts up, and follows the tracks as best he can towards Oleg’s Trading Post.

Perception: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8
Survival(Track): 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (5) + 7 = 12

Guillame will keep his eyes open and track Muadhnait as best he can. If he spies anyone, he will approach with caution (no stealth roll, just ready to spur Grognon to a gallop) until he can work out if they seem like bandits or not.