[center][b][color=slategray][h3]Athulwin[/h3][/color][/b]
[i]Addressing:[/i] [@Enigmatik][/center]

There's an expression in the Old Marshes, a warning whispered from ear to ear and from mothers to their children. "Where the wind blows, a Sayer hears." There's a reason it's one of the most common languages practiced by the Uttering Monks. Sitting with his wooden window propped open, with his eyes on a book and his head off daydreaming, Athulwin nonetheless hears many of the comings-and-goings of the Caravan, the sounds of it all carried to him magically by the wind. When people talk, snitches and snippets of their conversation comes to the Monk. When they take heavy footsteps, they echo towards his reading nook. He does not know everything. He only hears what the Wind chooses to tell him, and it is a spirit both fickle and unpredictable. Nonetheless, he is aware of much.

Through the window, he hears...

People are upset. The Caravan is confused as to why it has stopped here. The refugees who came begging are grateful for all the help, but the Pilgrims themselves aren't sure why they can't keep on moving through this accursed wood and get back out into the open country again. Athulwin hears the voice of Gadri Abzan muttering, saying they'll see what they can do to get them all moving again. It seems like the dwarven smith didn't say that line to any one person in particular, so in one if its fits of whimsy, the Wind decided that Athulwin should be the receiving end.

He hears Gru refuse to reveal his methods- again- which is dissapointing, but he is glad that the monger can show a little bit of willingness to bargain. That is an unexpected good turn. Athulwin doesn't much care for Gru as a human being. He's faithless. He's what the Uttering Monks back in Queensrock would have called a self-seeker, one who has turned from pursuing higher things and now looks inward, hurting those around him by trying to satisfy himself out of himself. An impossible thing. But he is a master of his particular art, and that's something to respect.

And, as expected, the calm voice of Knossos blows through the window too, reassuring Athulwin that the old occultist will be along in just a minute. For a warlock (or whatever he is- he might be a full-blown necromancer for all Athulwin can tell), the Dreamwalker is perhaps the most polite soul in the Caravan. It's refreshing. So many here are road-hardened travelers, more concerned with getting somewhere fast than showing proper respect. It irks the Navigator. But he's also a little irked, and confused, as to why he does not yet hear one particular voice, a yipping one that he expected by no-

"[color=khaki]Knock knock! Malleck here! Got your message Athulwin![/color]"

Ah.

Athulwin rises with creaking joints from his seat, his knees popping loud in protest. He summons up his mystical Aura on the way, so that he'll be properly intimidating and persuasive. When he swings open the door to his little, rich Caravan, he is looking at the eager and sincere face of a dog straight from the savannahs.

"[Color=slategray]You know, Master Freepaw,[/color]" he looks down at the Ainok singer, "[color=slategray]most other people just talk into the wind to answer me. I would have heard it.[/color]" [i]Maybe[/i]. "[color=slategray]Hmm. Would you like to come in?[/color]" His smile is real, nonetheless.