Neverwinter Forest Keep the knife close while you sleep.

The stranger was trying to impose their will upon him. Others had tried, and others had failed; but it gave Myrmidon a moment to pause and reflect. Here was a beast close to his stature, maybe age too, who fought for something. There was no sign of other scents here—and as they began to roam together towards the moss-hewn mess which had once been a rock slide in to the forest, Myrmidon took a draught of air and found he was wrong there; maybe one other, a woman? Nonetheless, too few to be of concern to Myrmidon.

Then again, he could hear the way the ferns crushed beneath the man's step. He could feel the pressure of his presence alongside him as they moved together through the old debris field. The danger remained; a younger Myrmidon might have goaded the stranger in to a fight by now.

They came finally to a tree split almost in half, which somehow was still alive. A boulder had crashed in to it years ago but now was overrun by moss.

Here. He wasn't entirely sure, but feigned interest at the base of this odd sculptural growth. He had been a boy when the tusk had been stolen, and buried, and hidden. His interest in it wasn't real either—better to give himself time enough to study this man, and his land. For this purpose Myrmidon began to dig, keeping with the ruse.