[ There's a bit of a pause as Rust reads over the sheer fucking drivel spouted on his behalf, wonders why he bothered, and lands on the name. Fring. Deja vu's hardening to certainty—Beth, Chile—when he's all-too-gently instructed to talk, to misdirect. ]

Ah, we moved on from there. More to the west, pretty dense jungle. Safer that way. But I can tell you—out by the cabin, there's a bird he gets feathers from, for the arrows. Called a skua, kind of a grey-white. They're scavengers, hooked beaks. Nest on the ground. Tricky fuckers.

Now I don't know how wide they range on the island, but someone shows up, sees them—that'd be their cue to get the hell out.