The night passes quietly, much to Aarnr's disgust.

The guards do not turn out to be treacherous rapscallions, the other temporary residents of the camp don't approach the group with intent to steal, murder, or otherwise inconvenience them.  Even the demoniacally horned oxen refuse to reveal any evil tendencies, unless you count their smell, no matter how hard Aarnr glares at them.

Dawn, when it arrives is cold and damp, with a dense fog hiding the plain below, and with it the plain.

In the camp on the hilltop, the fog rolls among the tents and the wagons, reducing all to a dim shadow-play, and muffling sounds (though, for voices, that muffling could be the effect of scarves tightly bound over mouths).

A slight brightening of the fog in the general direction of east reveals when the sun rises, even though the disc itself is no more visible than any thing else this morning.

From somewhere nearby comes a laugh, which degenerates into a hacking cough, and a few choice curses.

And the faint breeze carries an aroma that reveals that somewhere in the chill, fog-shrouded morning, somebody is cooking bacon...

As always, Eilieen is up early.  Breakfast requires preparing -- it won't do so itself, they have no such magics -- and prayer is needed.  Shivering in the damp cold, quietly cursing it to some dark corner of the Abyss, she continues the simple task of laying out the food for cooking, stoking up what remains of the fire, and bringing the water.  By the time the others have awakened, hopefully the smell of their nearly-finished breakfast will be in the air.

Once Erista raises her no-doubt disheveled head, the priestess brightens.  "Erista," she quietly calls, "if you might join me, I would enjoy the opportunity to mend your clothing."

Once a day, and she'll have everyone looking tip-top in under a week.

Colwyn sits shivering, tightly wrapped in his blanket.

"I's reckonin' as 'ow we'll be seein' more days like this, seein' as 'ow the year's gettin' on a bit.  Winter soon.  I's 'opin' as we'll be somewhere what's bein' warm afore that."

The rogue looks skyward, though nothing can be seen beyond the fog, except for a vague brightness in what is, presumably, the east.

"Both moons'll be bein' dark termorrer, an' like the monks was sayin' it'll be the what's it... the ekinox... soon.  That's meanin' as 'ow there's goin' ter be bad luck termorrer."