Gerald nodded. He glanced at the game over Orha's shoulder; the camp wasn't temporary, then. For all that he still had an aversion to food, the thought of raw meat, thick with blood, woke some baser instinct in him. He stood, dusted himself off, gestured to the dead fowl and pulled a knife out of his belt. It was small, and sharp, and far more useful as a tool than his sword. There was no menace in the gesture, no tense to attack. He held up one finger, and then pointed at the birds and began to roll up his sleeves.