It was a wonder, truly, that any of them ever managed to strike camp in a hurry. The tents sprawled with more personal decor than strictly necessary, and Gale’s was especially impractical: there were stacks upon stacks of books, little astrolabes and mystical orreries, and somehow he’d continued to cart along a full-sized telescope and hadn’t shattered it yet; sometimes it looked as if he’d taken his Waterdeep study and dragged it onto the road, even soggy boots and damp ground and all.

Quick enough, however, Gale obediently picked his way through the camp, wending past the others and towards the cleric’s corner of camp, as summoned.

“Knock knock,” he said aloud, cheerfully, for lack of being able to rap his knuckles against the flap of Nepione’s tent. Then, continuing on as if their conversation hadn’t paused at all, speaking to the tent wall while the tiefling rustled around inside: “Are you absolutely certain you wouldn’t rather Karlach by your side, for carrying everything? My capabilities as a pack mule are woefully inadequate by comparison; sheer brawn isn’t exactly my forté, while she’s very, very good at it. The woman could probably benchpress you, in a pinch.”