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Rats were both figuratively and literally — at least to the extent they were possible — divided. The stowaway three were quite content in their hiding places, able to listen in on conversations and even carefully stick their tiny heads out for glimpses of their surroundings when they were sure no one was looking. It was during one such moment they saw how close they were to the crock — as well as the large, scary woman from earlier, who must've been its guardian. To get past her, they would need someone with the capability of speech—!

One by one, Sal's pouch-rats began trying to nudge and tug at her, clearly in want of something. Unfortunately, they knew of no way to communicate their will more clearly now, with their usual pantomiming out of the picture. Hopefully, Sal would understand the gist, however; ask food. Get food. Continue talk over food if want.

Meanwhile, the three rats that had stayed behind, running in stressed circles, all perked up at the approach of another familiar face. It was Muste, keeping his distance from Sal, yet clearly observing her. Without a second wasted the Rats, who were feeling quite alien for being separated from their brethren, scurried towards him. They were likewise trying to hitch a ride with him, should they catch him before the now-old-man got too close to the camp. They did not want to risk notice. They remembered, collectively, what the large woman could do with her brush-tipped weapon.

Larry was on his own. Truly a soul to be commended, able to infiltrate the enemy lines equipped with naught but four quick paws and a rumbling stomach. It did not know what it was looking for, but its quest drove it to search for it in the the nearest tent. Still small, still quiet, still blessed with the aid of ample distractions, and therefore quite stealthy indeed.
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