"Perhaps," She allows, crushes the grub between a nail and a sigh. Vanity, not to just shave her bloody head. "Else age, disease; too little left to know. Still he was left."

No signs of injury or struggle. Dead this long, and nothing ransacked. She tips one skin into another, tries not to spill (gloves, tricky).

"He'd no weapons, and valuable shelter. Anyone might take it — might at least shift a corpse. You are a capable lad," Is that how the youths talk? "Who would you give such berth?"

Hands the empty skin back.