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They had to camp that night in the rain. All the hexes in the foothills were rainy. But they couldn't stop short in a clear hex; they needed to take full-move turns to make it home in three days rather than four.
Jillian was annoyed at that. The slowest of her two gwiffons still had a dozen move left. They didn't take much penalty for flying in mountains and none in hills, so she could have made the whole trip in two turns, if anyone trusted her to. Instead, she had to camp on soggy grass, and would have to ride out on a wet, squishy mount in the morning.
She unpacked and expanded her tent and bedroll alone, huddled between her poor wet beasts on the leeward slope. Nobody tried to build a fire. The Transylvitians were shut up tight, standing in their caskets, munching or drinking who knew what. Jillian didn't want to think about it.
Then again, the list of things she didn't want to think about was pretty long at this point, and that was a relatively safe question to consider. She lay on her damp bedroll, listening to the steady spatter on the tent canvas above, and decided to believe that Caesar ate rats.