Hungrily, he drinks in all the information given. Though not a scholar, he values the capture of knowledge in his own way. Knowing is its own advantage – is survival. Caneo records without assigning feeling to these new facts, merely tucking away the threat of cold and the great, hulking silhouette of the sentinel. He keeps, too, the ease with which Roland gives out this information. If the Basin has secrets, he has yet to discover even the barest hint of them.

        But he has barely dipped his toes into the snow.

        Caneo scans the night with wary eyes as Roland answers his last question. You have nothing to worry about, the thief had said. It seems a statement more broadly applicable than it was meant, so long as Caneo stays near his companion. He blinks at the thief, and in his chest caution battles desire. His guts rumble angrily at both of them, the frail-skin body around him unhappy, as ever. “You must be very important,” Caneo observes. He imagines himself serving any lord, any lady, and nearly laughs at the buzzing blank image at the back of his mind. He knows nothing of kings.

        But the thief... he likes.

        “Fighting is dangerous,” adds Caneo. Though his expression never changes, something tinged with sorrow lingers in the edge of his voice. He still doesn’t know what he will do here, but he abstains from asking more specific questions, wondering how far he may press before appearing pitiful. He gazes at Roland, wondering if maybe there is a place for him near the thief, though it feels like a child’s dream and he refrains from thinking on it very keenly. He is a not a smitten wastrel, so grateful for any kindness as to sell himself immediately. He is not foolish enough to go giving his heart out, or his hopes, or pinning his livelihood on anyone else. He wonders again what he is doing here, why he has come, when something else cleaves through the cool night air: a chiming of bells, the silver light of a hymn.

        Caneo’s head rises slowly, turning to catch the noise as he peers into the dark. Something pale gambols out from the shadows: a low shape, like a weasel or a fox. With a weary sigh, Caneo sidles away. His tail reaches to twitch through the dark before his ears turn to the mare, her features hidden by the dim of the night and by her own shade – like spun ebony without the brilliance of the sun. She smiles, though, and the sound of her voice is like song even in speech. “Good evening!” Caneo glances once at Roland, searching desperately for a cue.

        The thief seems to know these two – seems comfortable, even. Caneo’s ears twitch ever so briefly to paint his narrow features with a frown before he looks to the mare again, always keeping the smaller creature in periphery. It seems harmless... but he remembers nothing of its like. A pet? A captive? Caneo’s slender ears capture the silver of her voice with great suspicion.

        Her name is Lena, she says. Time Mender. It means nothing at all but he nods, reluctantly breaking the brittle hold of tension all along his spine. “Good evening, miss.” Surely he may be forgiven if he sounds a little tired now, and not bright, and not particularly glad to be acquainted with strange faces in a strange place in the dark. His bones rattle like crumbling pillars between his joints. “My n-name is Caneo. Roland brought me.” His face tilts again, stretching the long neck to gaze at the pale fox – fox, he thinks, with too many tails. “Does that... belong to you?” Please keep it away. How many strange things can he learn in a night?