Motan left with that unfortunate bird and soon arrived at a clearing on the edge of the Crystal Wolf campsite, for warriors who had been stationed here last night had already formed ranks and headed to the central area over an hour ago, leaving behind only a few logistics personnel still packing up pots, pans, and ladles.
It took Motan no more than two minutes to borrow a set of kitchenware, and then he casually found a campfire to roast the ill-fated Raven No.12. He sat contentedly on a borrowed folding stool, humming a little tune while turning the makeshift spit in front of him and taking out the slip of paper he had secretly slid into his pack. He scanned it at a glance, scoffed a few times, and then threw it into the fire to burn.
The deceased messenger could no longer summon the strength to protect this rather fragile piece of intelligence.
