I'm not crying, its smoky in here.

 As Fortu studies the markings made by the deliberate but dour Liga Bur, still struggling to tell the difference between walking tracks and running, he hears the scratching of quill to paper. He looks across to the bard; Rifkin had taken to helping Fortu with his letters, so hoping for a break from the stern guidance of the expert tracker, Fortu moves over to the bard.

"What ya writing Riffers"

As Rifkin explains the contents of the letter Fortu places a large but gentle hand on his shoulder.

"ah Riffers, I think you may be the best of us".