[When the twig-snapper steps into view as a single hyur--who looks unarmed, possibly a peddler from the box he carries--he relaxes visibly.] It isn't like anyone even has the time to chop the whole damned thing down, [he mutters, before extricating himself completely from the bush (being six-nine and leggy makes getting tangled in things regrettably easy).]

So, [Drividot says, his humor improving with the absence of scratchy twigs,] which god is it that lives here, then? SInce you know them to be... easy-going. [Not a word he usually associates with gods.]