Mhorva regards Xestras with a quirked eyebrow. It is a bat, that much is obvious, but it is also unlike any other bat she's ever seen in a way the druid couldn't put her finger on. Alas, she muses silently, The first of many mysteries t' come, no doubt.
Dawn, Mhorva repeats with a nod, And none o' yeh be late. Her blunt goodbye delivered, she turns and begins to walk towards the fringes of the town, weathered shawl swinging limply like a freshly plucked fowl. The moth takes flight, beginning a tumbling, seemingly random pattern into the fading light of the day.