"Quiet at night, too," called a voice from above the two men, after one had commented on the dark glade. A strung bow hung by said string on a branch, of a branch, of a healthily sized maple. On a lower, thicker branch, could be seen a pair of feet and ankles, laid casually, pointed away from the maple's trunk.

"If there's anything moving in there, it [i]only[/i] moves in there," Ungimros concluded. He spelled a weapon into his hand, and was disappointed to find it a new style of throwing dagger, rather than an arrow. He was still having communicative difficulties with whatever realm of Oblivion his conjurations were sourced from, and had evidently once again failed to properly demand an arrow.

His previous night had consisted primarily of failing to hit several very annoyed slaughterfish with daggers conjured and thrown to pass time. Reaching the tomb quickly had been imperative, given word had managed to spread across the mountains. The trip would only serve to make Ungimros and the rest of his newfound party colder and poorer if some other group cleaned the place out before them. As such, he'd arrived in Falkreath almost a week before the rest of the group planned to, scouted the area, and made sure no one was taking their spoils.

His initial expedition consisted of familiarizing himself with the routes of a few streams that fed into Ilinalta, as well as the oldest trees around, and the various dens of local bears and trolls. By the time Ungimros had settled down and dined on a slaughterfish the first night, he'd managed to collate a decent mental map of the area, which was more useful than the directions they'd been given. By then, he understood how this place had gone unplundered. It did not have the ostentation he'd heard about in other Nordic barrows, there was no trail for even a tracker to follow, and it had been placed in a fairly unremarkable spot.

The rest of his week was mostly scaring local children back to their homes with a 'ghost wolf', antagonizing a troll, making dinner with a lone, racist bandit, and pondering on who among the ancient Nords merited such a discrete burial. He lacked the relevant education though, and his curiosity was mild enough to be easily swept aside by the new arrivals. Even now, before much of a response to Ungimros' words could occur, a High Rock accent seeped through the fog. He stood on his branch with a hiss declaring this his first stretch since waking.

"Look for the big maple," Ungimros called in the appropriate direction, after looking around the tree trunk to see a distant light. He imagined that even if she was as ignorant of plantlife as the stereotypes permeating his homeland suggested, she could follow a voice.