The coyote turns and lopes off into the trees, his bouncing gait remarkble only in the fact that his paws never quite touch the ground.
At the campsite, Blackeagle is almost chuckling into the last bits of his stew, "Experiment, huh? Trying to see how fast naked cityfolk can die in the mountains? You seen too many bad horror trids tusker, and what would you be auditioning for, 'Seattle's Next Top Porn Idol'?"
There is more than a little touch of crazy that creeps into his laughter as he tells his jokes, but you sense no heat behind his jabs. Rough manners from being alone most of the time certainly, but no ill will. He calms down as he finishes his coffee.
"You are talking about a magical trace, and you are right, you all got the whiff of elf magic on you, that's why I keep asking who you pissed off in the Tir. The border to fantasyland is closer to here than that pissant squat, Yakima." the Amerind says, pointing to the south.