A sea of emerald green stretched out before Mozenrath's sight. As the wind blew across the village the grass waved back like little jewels, shining in the morning sunlight. The smell of rain and conifers flooded his nose and he sniffed as if congested, unused to the air here. Everything smelled dewy, even the hut he had emerged from. The huts were strangely shaped, like clichéd wizard hats with thick moss and wood covering them. Outside most of them stood tall looms, attended by women weaving some of the most complicated patterns he had ever seen. As he watched, figures began to emerge, strange and mystical gold hounds on a field of red and green, a man with large eyes and a great beard stood above many smaller men wielding a bizarre spear with three heads.

A bakery of sorts stood off to one side, many clay ovens cooking bread. The scent wafted over him and he realized quite suddenly how hungry he was. A tall woman looked over and smiled, recognizing Tristan. She was using a great stone to grind thick yellow grain to a fine power. He waved back and continued leading Mozenrath on the tour. "Are you alright? Your shivering." The druid asked suddenly.

Mozenrath hadn't allowed himself to say anything, but he was freezing.

"You must not be from around here, it is almost Beltane, your shaking like it's Yule." Tristan shook his head. "I will see if Essus has any spare cloaks for you."

Mozenrath grimaced when his guides back was turned. The clothing he wore felt common and itchy against his soft skin. Most of what he wore was made from wool or animal hide, not to mention it was at least two sizes too big for him. Apparently their smith had (one of the only bachelors in the village) had given up some of his wear for the stranger as most of his clothing had been torn beyond repair from the fall.

Mozenrath would just as soon have gone naked. He couldn't figure out why this clothing made him feel uncomfortable. He should be grateful for rags! These people were already taking care of him, had saved from certain death and tended to him like one of their own. Why then did he feel as if he should be strutting about in silks and…satin? He wore a pair of deer hide breeches that had been patched once or twice, a loin cloth, tunic, and solid animal hide boots. A massive belt that dwarfed his already too thin waist and a leather strip had been used to tie back his unusually thick black locks. He'd been given a comfortable pair of gloves to cover his grotesque hand with. He couldn't look too awful, some of the women had notice his presence and their stares were not entirely ones of apprehension. But still…

Apparently Essus did have extra cloaks and brought them himself. A shorter, stocky man with the starting of a beard, he couldn't be more than two years Mozenrath's junior, but he carried himself with a familiar arrogance. The younger man looked him up and down and handed the cloaks over with barely a word, acting preoccupied. What went unspoken between them did not need to be said.

Foreigner.

Uppity brat.

Tristan smirked and arched a thick gray eyebrow. "He is a remarkable one isn't he? He is just under me as a druid, may take the position as chief when I pass on." Tristan looked at the expression of distaste on Mozenrath face and smiled broadly. "May…" he stressed and they continued onward.

A flock of children ran by, chasing a pig skin ball and tossing it from one to the other. As he watched, it became obvious that the children wearing three or more colors were leading the rest. They also seemed to have small, crude bracelets or rings around their fingers. As Mozenrath came to this realization he noticed that those with more colors on their clothing seemed to be doing better than those with less. Apparently this marked a chaste system. No one seemed desperately poor or lacking the essentials, it was just that some had more or finer things, others less. The whole place had a thoroughly rustic charm.

Mozenrath also began to notice that certain people, only a few out of the mass that seemed to make up this tribe, wore an eggshell shade of white somewhere on their bodies, aside from their otherwise common cloth. Tristan specifically hailed these people as they passed and they marked each other with varying degrees of respect and conversation. Most of it seemed to be about the soon to come celebration of Beltane. Apparently it was quite a large festival, expected to draw a massive crowd this year. After a while, once Tristan was sure he would neither cause nor come to harm, he left Mozenrath to his own devises.

"Your no chick in need of a mother hen." He said as he talked to another of those white marked people. This seemed to be a dismissal, one he was not entirely sure of. A stranger, of unknown origins, left to wander freely on his own? He would never do something like that…would he? Well at any rate, it didn't feel like something he would do. Still, if he going to go about unwatched, he may as well acquaint himself with the place.