Mantakers. In the middle of one of their camp-like villages, there's more of them here than any other outsider has probably seen before. At least, when it comes to outsiders who are still alive to this day. Barely clothed women meander from one large tent to another in the clearing, varied in frame but invariably possessing a warrior's physique even as small ones lag a little behind. As uncanny (if obvious) as the sight is, there's Mantaker men here too. Not nearly as many as their counterparts, but tribal men are in fact in attendance, clad in in equally as little clothing as they tend to a pack of "liberated" cattle. It's not just the ersatz pen either. The trees having been downed to make room and material for some sturdier structures, like a blacksmith's forge and reinforced central armory. At one end of the settlement, past the larger and heavier leather tents, a remarkable log cabin looms slightly elevated from its place on a meager hill. It's Agrestine architecture. Or least, a Mantaker's version of it cobbled together from memory. Still, among the nomadic stylings, it stands out like a sore thumb. Oi! Get your ass over here. Across the clearing, a yell sounds out. Low and rumbly from deep in Perosa's gut. Standing tall, the Mantaker chief grins while waving you over expectantly.