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The Spaniard had snuck out early that morning, careful not to wake his new mate, to tend to the fire. Ralla needed her rest and Oceane could not tend the fire yet so it was left to him. No complaints of course, tending the methaphorical soul of the tribe was his favourite part, followed by telling others of the lore and then, finally, stocking up on logs. The splinters were the least of his worries. Falling branches were always a hazard and he had slipped with his axe multiple times too.
The tan male sighed as he threw the last log in to the great of the great fire. Mizu would probably be up and about looking for him, he hadn't left a note or anything, which was a bit careless of him. Dusting his hands off, he stepped back to watch the fire rip into the new logs. It truly was a glorious sight to witness, the great fire in all it's glory. The Spaniard's bandana had been cleaned last night and had dried over night, it had been covered in mud and splinters and know it was nice and clean.
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