The small conjuror nods encouragingly.

The soil is awesome.

"This is good soil. Really, really good soil," he says in amazement after pinching a bit.

"No quasi-cannibalism for us, then. Thank the Mother."

Tiro watches this interaction.

He points in the direction he came from. "Really good soil," he advertises.

"Fucking sold."

"We should still bury him," Luvei says, "even if we're not going to try growing food from his body."

Tiro looks between Luvei and the body and the pile of dirt.

He attempts to inquire by gestures whether he should make more dirt.

"We're going to need more soil than that to grow food with," he says, "since it will be a few years at least before we can find somewhere more habitable. Here or where you came from doesn't matter."

He shrugs. He puts his magic painting kit away and stands up and puts his ridiculously overlarge backpack on again.

"We shouldn't all go with him, not to start with. Amalta, you and Luvei and Leuska and Mirrin and Fondai can stay and bury Dakker. I and Delsmiar and Yttren and Panga and Proust can see where he's taking us."

Tiro glances at all the named people, then takes a few steps away and beckons again.

The group designated to follow him does so.

Trek trek trek, back toward the lake and then around it. A hill by the shore comes into view. It looks to be about an hour's walk in total from the site of their arrival; if that's his base, he must have started walking almost as soon as he heard the death toll. And it seems likely to be his base. For one thing, it's covered in more of that good soil and has plants growing all the fuck over it.

Well, investigating a death toll and then immediately making soil speaks well of his motives. Gosh, those sure are plants. Are they edible plants, Yttren?

A selection of the nearby plants:

One low tangled bush whose coiling branches bear rolled-up strips of raw bacon instead of berries. The woody stems aren't very nutritious, but the bacon, uh, is bacon.

A cluster of sunflower-like plants with shining iridescent blue liquid collecting in their rolled-up cuplike leaves. Tiro interposes himself between Yttren and these ones, gesturing to the liquid and shaking his head: do not touch.

Assorted unrecognizable fruit trees and berry bushes and vegetables and tubers, all edible and nutritious.

A stand of peculiar shrubs without much nutritional value, busily producing pods of soft delicate pinkish-white fluff.

Yttren reports dazedly on the edibility of various things. Wow.

Tiro has more welcoming smiles for everyone.

He goes to a stone door set into the hillside and hauls it open with visible effort, then gestures: anyone want to see inside?

Sure, it's probably safe.

Then Tiro can give them an incomprehensibly narrated tour of his cozy little hill!

There's one big round room just inside the entrance, with ten backpacks just like the one he's wearing hanging neatly from pegs on the curve of the wall. Also in this room: a big round wooden table, not enough chairs for everyone, dust in the corners, and another door leading to a somewhat cramped spiral stair which in turn leads to another big room. It seems like it used to be some sort of dormitory, but half the beds are smashed and some of the remaining ones have fallen apart with age. Tiro shrugs apologetically.

She nods. "We were all expecting to sleep on the ground for the forseeable future anyway."

Wry smile. Nod. Incomprehensible commentary.

"I have no idea how much you get out of it when I talk. We should probably try to teach each other more words."

"I get more words when you talk."

"...So are you just really really good at languages or is that your species' magic?"

"My magic. Not species."