Moonspear her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs

Megara returns Speedy's smile, though not without a glint of steel in her eyes. Indeed, though wanderlust does not excuse a lapse in good manners, she responds coolly, gaze flickering to the boy before returning again to the woman. I should think my family happy to host our neighbors. . .when first they call for an audience. She dips her head slightly at the introduction, and then turns to the other, who for all the world looked a Melonii, save for her eyes.

In the weald, north of the mountains, she explains, grateful that this woman shows more apology—and willingness to reprimand—than Speedy had. Our claim is fresh enough, but certainly not invisible. One corner of her mouth quirks wryly at that; she knows her grandson and others had been hard at work, making sure their fortress was near-impenetrable.

She lifts her chin, staring up the peak. This is your claim, then? Megara asks almost rhetorically. A lovely, wild place. I will remember it—and your pack—on future expeditions. Not much of those left, she thinks, taking into account her aching bones, but it is at least valuable intel for others of her family that wish to wander. She cuts her stare over to Moath, making sure he is staying civil, in line.

There is something within him that disturbs her greatly, though she knows not what.