Sputtering and coughing, Varstl emerges from the tangle of vines draping down from the gate behind the group. His boots are filthy, leaves and twigs are stuck in his beard, and his traveling pack seems to be crammed, if possible, even fuller. By his posture, not to mention the remains of assassin vines stuck to his shortsword, it's obvious he's been hacking through the forest after them for quite some time. He sighs under his breath as he spots the group, but otherwise makes no mention of his trek.
"Ah, I thought the owlbear was yours," he growls in a low voice. "You all have yet to evade me."
Varstl takes a moment to pick a particularly pointy twig out of his beard.
"Not that it's difficult. Whoever's wearing the oversized boots makes tracks like small canyons; it doesn't take a ranger or survivorman to find you all. But a lecture about stealth another time, we're stopped for a reason. What are we--"