Approaching the camp, the invisible cleric does not seem to attract any attention. Maenor draws near a gathering of three mercenaries eating from mess kits, and catches the middle of their conversation.
"Look, I 'ate the desert as much as you," says a dwarf male, pointing a small fork at the half-orc across from him, "but you know the gold is gonna be good. Them lizards is keen on they's contracts, remember? 'Sides, you heard the boss. We's only gonna be here a coupla more days t' make sure no stragglers come crawling out of the rocks."
A human male chimes in, "Gold or no, I'm with Bennett. Plenny of other work we could be doin' that's better 'n sitting here on our ass all day in the sun. Ain't nobody gonna come out that desert alive after what we done to 'em. I bet they's all dry bones by now."
The dwarf shrugs. "Ah well, lookit this way then. You's all getting paid f'r doing nuthin'."
The conversation turns to minor and trivial things, and Maenor focuses upon the large tent. The tent flaps are partially open, probably to allow some air flow. At this angle, he can see a small cot of canvas inside covered with a fur blanket and a sword belt. There are probably candles or some significant flame within judging by the play of light, and the shadows against the interior wall suggests two individuals are within.
Something catches Maenor's ears as dwarf says, "Anyways, finish yer grub and quit yer bellyachin'. We gots the next perimeter watch tonight, and I ain't reckon on listening to you prattlin out there in the dark."
"I hate these nights," mumbles the half-orc in response. "Whoever'd thought the desert would be cold at night?"
