Murtagh Morzansson walked back towards the clearing, that he and Thorn had made camp in for the evening, with one hand threaded through his hair. A sigh leaves his lips as he throws the rabbit he'd caught to the red dragon's feet.

Close by, a branch snaps. Thorn raised his crimson-scaled haunches, lips curled back in a snarl. Murtagh narrows his eyes, unsheathing a dagger before calling out into the dusk.

"Who goes there—?"