'What does y' think, Rascal?' the diminutive scout asked the dwarf-bred goat that served as her mount. 'D'you reckon Miss Sareva be on to somethin' regardin' me? There some'at wrong with wantin' to do what I's better at 'n most is?'
The goat snorted and flattened an ear as he carried her along, unconcerned. She was just musing out loud again, and it was a nice, sunny day in the Bruinen gorges, an area where the only trouble they usually ran into was trolls, and those, of course, only at night.
A soft chuckle came from the rider. 'Aye, you don' care if'n she be right, long's I keeps takin' care of y'!' She patted his shoulder affectionately. 'An' mebbe she be onto somethin'. Mebbe I's gettin' too fey. Híril Cesistya seemed t' reckon so, anyways, an' tha's two ladies tellin' me tha' now.'
The goat, of course, while rather clever for his kind, took no notice of her words other than to be soothed by her calm mood, and kept plodding along the path.
'Reckons I's goin' 'ave to think on it more as we rides. I 'opes Miss Sareva likes the wine I's bringin', 'er, though. Purty sure she don' get much Dorwinion vintage in Bree, anyways.' She lapsed into a musing silence as they rode onward, keeping watch for possible dangers as she thought.
