Rosewater Oasis I speak in plastic

He'd never figured Widower to be a religious creature. What seemed to make sense to her was what was tangible. The sun, like anything else, had a purpose and while Tumbleweed entertained the notion that good actions might merit some sort of reward, he knew not to put too much stock in the paranormal. Life wouldn't wait for prayers; nature was an insatiable, unbiased politician. It governed without heeding the pleas of those who weakened. 

"She lives somewhere Northeast of here," He said. She'd gestured in that direction, anyway- but he hadn't bothered to investigate. There was no way of telling if all of her comrades shared her sentiments. "But I imagine word of us has likely already travelled to them, so I don't see any reason to go looking for them." He said.