[Stratos is about the last man who needs to be told to beware outlaws’ arrows. Bennet has no way of knowing it, though, and the tribune holds his tongue. This is neither the time nor the company for such conversation. There’s merely a grimmer set to his mouth when he nods. He’ll have his own ward ready in the back of his mind as they creep up among the rocks, the latter task made far easier now that his hands are free and his balance unhampered.]

[And if it feels ridiculous, to be ordered around by a foreigner in the Empire’s domain… well, it’s not the moment for pride, either. He needs to mind his position and keep alert for any signs that they’ve been spotted… and watch his step indeed. There is a back path up to the rocks overlooking the camp, and it’s unguarded for a reason. At a couple of points muddy tripwires are strung across the path. The mechanisms may be crude, but they’d serve quite well to bring a cascade of unstable rocks down upon the unwary infiltrator.]

[Having avoided those, one must still escape any casual glances from the lookouts below, though if anything they’re focused on the front side of the camp. It’s been some while since their friends went out to investigate all that shouting, after all. They ought to be back soon…]

[The lone archer they’ll find up there is certainly not looking for an attack from his escape route. He’s busy chewing on some dried-out bread and grumbling to himself, bow propped against the little table at which he sits.]

Ahhh, what’s taking ‘em so long…? Probably found another bunch of pilgrims… or one of those kitty caravans. Bet Eron's hiding the good stuff before they come tell the boss. Huh. Hope someone guts that sly son of a hag...