“Are they alive?”

“I’m not sure, I can’t—“

“Is it a woman?”

“I’m trying to tell you, I can’t tell. they’re covered in—“

“Seriously, Ivvy? ‘It’? I know you don’t like girls, but that’s low, man.”

“Can you two please—“

“It’s a little more complicated than just ‘not liking girls’, you fool. And I told you to stop calling me—“

“By the gods, will you two idiots please shut the hell up? If they aren’t dead yet, they’ll sure as hell wish they were when they wake up, woman or no! Your bickering could give a woodpecker a headache!” Torin bellows. Azertus and Ilvara immediately fall silent with equally embarrassed expressions, effectively chastened by the minotaur. Torin exhales a heavy sigh of relief, nostrils flaring.

“Aye, finally. How I’m still able to stand you two is a blessing from Ilmater, I’ll tell ye that much.” Torin huffs, turning his attention back to the stranger sprawled out on the dirt before them. Anon.

There’s nothing but land and sky for miles, the nearest city–Baldur’s Gate–being well over a day’s journey away on foot. So a person-- an unconscious one at that, was the last thing any of them expected to find on their way back to camp. Azertus was the one to stumble upon Anon with quite the fright, which caused Ilvara to smirk. It was the first time the other two had seen anything even remotely resembling a smile tug at Ilvara’s lips. Satisfying in its own right.

Torin finally approaches Anon’s motionless form, using the end of his greataxe to gently nudge them. The massive minotaur crouches down, hooves sinking into the soft loam as he leans in closer for inspection.

“Well, they’re definitely still drawing breath at least,” Torin rumbles, his deep voice a low vibration. “Doesn’t look to be any obvious wounds or blood. But it’s hard to get a good look at 'em underneath all that dirt and grime.” He shoots a glance over his furry shoulder at Azertus and Ilvara. “One of you wants to try rousing them? Could use a healing spell if you’ve got any in that spellbook of yours, Ivvy.”

Ilvara’s lips purse at the despised nickname, but he steps forward, slinging his black longbow across his back. Kneeling down, the drow closely studies Anon’s slack features through narrowed gray eyes. “I don’t see why we should bother helping a half-dead stranger,” Ilvara grunts. “But if you insist.”

As Ilvara begins tracing arcane symbols in the air with two fingers, whispering an incantation, Azertus sidles up alongside them. The tiefling rogue crouches down, inspecting Anon’s disheveled appearance with blatant curiosity.

“Don’t recognize the outfit. You’d think anyone crazy enough to be wandering the wilderness alone would at least have some gear?” Azertus muses aloud, pointed tail waving lazily behind him. "Maybe they’re just a villager from one of the farmsteads we passed, got jumped by bandits or–”

All three of them freeze as Anon begins to stir, Ilvara dropping his incantation and Azertus jumping back to his feet, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his dagger. Torin stays put, looking back at his companions with a long-suffering sigh. “Really? One would think you two a couple of maidens, not a pair of experienced adventurers. Mercenaries my arse.”

Swiveling his massive bull head to look back at Anon, Torin prods gently. “Oi, you awake? Remember your name?”