Silvertip Mountain Through the big top tent up high

Catamaran found his terms eminently reasonable as well, and had not truly expected the man to see otherwise. Yet, he was wary of changing opinions and moving goalposts as the cold settled in. It was too much in his line of work to expect fair treatment — but, regardless, the bounty hunter would collect what was owed to him.

"Well met," he replied, lifting a paw and pressing it briefly over his heart in his own show of vulnerability. He was as willing to show respect as Sólhárr. "Catamaran, of Blackmouth by the Sea. My grandmother walked these shores."

He did not expect Sólhárr to recognize the name of Blackmouth, nor did he think it terribly relevant that Moorhen had lived in these lands almost a lifetime ago. He only meant to reveal a little of himself in a show of good faith — as much as he preferred suspicion, he did not expect a man to live beside it all winter long.

"Tell me of Forneskja," he requested, testing out what he hoped would be another shared tongue. The dialects they spoke were subtly different, but there was enough commonality that they ought to be able to make sense of each other. At the same time, the bounty hunter made a show of making ready to follow the man, or else be directed to the claim. He had no possessions, but that did not negate his desire to settle in and luxuriate in the comfort of semi-permanence and safety in numbers.