Uldren snarled when Mac attacked him, but he was too warm and too tired and too hungry to actually do anything else. He inched over a little when Mac sat down, but he also grumbled into the coat unintelligibly about doing so. What he really wanted was a real bed in a real building and a huge table groaning under a feast. What he had was a fairly warm coat to curl up in and berries to eat, if he could make himself free an arm long enough to reach for them.

He'd already decided that being warm and drying out was worth more than a handful of berries, no matter how much effort Mac had put into gathering them.

The elf watched Mac gesture and flail, trying to decide if it would be worth it to speak. He could figure out what the man meant easily enough, that if he talked they'd let him go, but why did they want him to talk, and what was he supposed to say? Anything bout his home or he other elves was absolutely out of the question. He'd already betrayed his clan more than enough by being captured and leaving the camp poorly guarded. SO what was the point in saying anything?

Then again, they really hadn't hurt him. In fact, he'd hurt the grayer one rather badly during their silent struggle, which probably explained why he'd been carried and dumped so carelessly. He shifted a little, wishing he could rub some of the bruises that were starting to really ache. He chewed his lip a little, showing both his indecision and his youth. An older scout would never show so much as an eyeblink. What if he just said a few words? Something impossible for them to glean anything from . . .