“I was thinking more about the locals,” Rainer said. “We’ve all glimpsed yuan-ti in the ruins nearby.”

Krailash shook his head. His voice was measured, and solid as the iron shield strapped to his back. “No one hates yuan-ti more than I do, or with better reason.” He’d tried to bury the memories of his first time adventuring, young and eager, his scales still shining and unscarred, and the brave companions who’d set forth with him to seek treasure in an abandoned temple in a land beyond the jungle-a temple that, in fact, had been home to a vast tribe of yuan-ti and their fanatical Snaketongue cultists. One of Krailash’s party had turned out to be a traitor, secretly a cultist working for the yuan-ti, who’d led them in as human sacrifices. Only Krailash had survived, and his loathing for the snakemen had only grown more profound over the years. But the few of that race who lurked in the jungle nearby were pitiful, half-starved things barely holding onto life. He said as much to Rainer. “These serpentfolk are broken remnants. Their numbers dwindle every year, and there weren’t enough of them to be a threat a decade ago. They are mad cultists, devoted to feeding the monsters they venerate. When we come too close, they hide in what remain of their temples to Zehir.” The dragonborn spat after speaking the snake-deity’s name.

The child cried again. “That’s no serpent spawn,” Krailash said. “Sounds human to me.” He’d heard the mewling of human children before, and something deep within his armored heart turned over at the sound. His adventuring days were behind him. For the past ten years and more he’d been a protector instead, and that cry was the sound of someone who needed protection. “There are a few human refugees and halfing tribes in the jungle,” he said after a moment. “Though I know of none so close by. We shall see. Rainer, you and Marley come with me. The rest of you, watch the harvesters.”