Cedar rode in the back of the wagon, not of necessity, but of quiet amusement and silent comfort. (For the most part.)

It had never occurred to these folks that he did not NEED to ride a horse at all to keep up, or even to ask him about it. It had occurred to him that the only person to see him naked and moving about on all fours, really moving about on all fours, (Dame Matilda had gotten a glimpse the day before, at the rendezvous at the old fort tower, but had said or remembered nothing. Maybe she was wanting to keep him fed and rested? She clearly didn't understand bears at this time of year.) Had been Henri, the tutor.  That fellow had been chagrined to watch him sentry, investigate, and rig for hostility all around that tower for well over an hour in that condition.

What, did they think he could only run on two feet? That the thick pads on his palms he concealed with gloves, were just ornamentation?

He had hastily inhaled the last of the soup, after he had talked with baker about the matter earlier in the late afternoon. Had convinced the long eared man that he did not want to overwork Nina, when the same work had already been done elsewhere. He had been civil, he remembered, to Nina's relief, if the reactions he caught (from just out of eye shot) were an indication.  Regardless, his dinner was still settling, so he was indeed quite content to laze in the bed of the wagon for the time being, though he felt a bit at odds about letting Reinhold do all the tracking in the dark. Full humans couldnt see like he could.

Smell like he could either.

He giggled, dodging a lurch from the wagon, at the double meaning, remembering the farmer's poor dog getting its first whiff of bearman urine hours earlier.  'Bigger and scarier than you thought huh, boy? Not like a man at all, am I right?' He had chortled inwardly then, when it had taken off like a terrified rabbit.

He yawned lazily, then tugged off his gloves. Then his boots.

He really was NOT accustomed to wearing them this long, and they constricted and bit at his extremities, especially the boots: ornaments meant for public exhibition, not for actual use or protection, they only forced his paws into shapes more pleasing for human eyes, rather than affording protection. He wore them for the benefit of others, rather than his own. Well, outside of being accidentally shot anyway, by terrified townsfolk and zealous guards. They, and the robes served a fine purpose for that. Ordinarily, he preferred to be unencumbered and unclothed. Movement through the woods was as sleek and easy as a fish in water that way. It was the way he had spent his early childhood, and was the way his younger siblings were right now, almost certainly-- snuggled up in a pile on the floor of his dad's cabin, with Mama, and his dad buried in the heap someplace. This would have been their last year denning at home; dad would have been working hard to finish their cabins in time for winter.

He was suddenly homesick, and contemplated removing his robes. He felt out of place, out of touch, far from home. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn't that bad yet. It would just prompt his fur to thicken, like always. Bushier, thicker, floofier. Not like the sleekness of spring and summer. He looked down at the sleeves of his robes. The hand woven fabric, made from hand spun thread. Somewhat clumsy stitching down the seams. It, along with the boots and gloves, were not meant for, nor made for long term use. A tool, like a knife, or a walking stick. A thing, a sign to indicate civility to humans, that they would otherwise be blind to. A physical embodiment of the love and protection his father had for him. All hand made by him. He struggled between the urge for physical comfort, to remove them, and the longing for emotional comfort, to keep them on-- as he huddled and tucked up like a big brown ball in the back of the wagon.

Abruptly, the wagon stopped, ending the reverie. Veronica (he was having difficulty with all the names-- another newcomer who's silent, still movements sent instinctual wariness, if not waves of terror down his back, sending the fur bristling whenever she was around. The decidedly nonhuman scent didn't help. He wondered how she managed to ride the horses... Maybe that's why she was in the wagon's front?) had gotten down and performed a far more skilled augury in a cup of water in the moonlight than Vanquis would every be capable of, (It didn't even explode! Not even steam!) As they approached a forlorn and somber fortress town. He could smell the smoke of the chimneys. The animals the people kept. All towns smelled like that. (Even though this one was still some distance off.) Even Hdur, where they just left, and where he had left Jorry, sleeping peacefully on that bed. He had dared not disturb her when he saw her that way. The shopping could come another day.

Now, people would be in beds here too, unwary and unaware of the group of frightening people parked in the edge of the woods in the silver light the moon was shedding, like furtive beasts in the night. He would know; he was one. Well, half anyway.

He overheard her talking with the others, mostly Matilda and the long eared woman, Jazdia, about the prince having been moved, and for the need to split up. He looked down at his robes once more, then decided. He folded them neatly, tucking the removed gloves into the folded parcel of fabric, then placing the large boots on top in the front of the wagon, before tying the seed pouch to his left wrist again, then languidly oozing off the back of the wagon on all fours.  He figured being spotted and identified as a civilized creature was not what they really needed right now, since they would need to split up in secret. With his nose to the ground he was a better tracker anyway.

He lazily plodded up to the small knot of conspiring group leaders to let them know he could take the task of finding the path the kidnappers had taken from here along with Reinhold, who was struggling in the dark, while they decided among themselves, giving them a bit of a scare in the process.