You're not sure why you have the urge to follow this disheveled meddler, but whoever's up on that mountain top shouting would certainly wait for the one they were calling instead of just recognizing whoever gets up there first. After all, there's no way you're going to beat helmet-guy at this point. He's three times your size and has a great head start. Best to hear this dirty guy out before getting hasty.

You walk behind the strange man into the hut, and are met by six of the dirtiest bunch of milk drinkers you've ever laid eyes on and, coming from you, that's saying something. The only thing odd is the smoothness of their cheeks. Most vagrants, peasants, and farmers have thick wiry beards or, at the very least, signs of ragged stubble.

"We are the Cleanshaven," the man speaks with an air of authority. "An ancient and honored order dedicated to wielding and studying what we call the Muu'mehmeh, or simply "the Murmur," in the tongue of man. And I am called Splint."

"Uh huh ... " you say, taking a step back.

"You, my child," he continues, "are ... The Turtleborn!"

"Uh, the what?" you ask.

It's clear from the man's face that he is somewhat disappointed in your reaction.

It's really not too late to catch that man in the helmet. Head for the mountain!

Hear Splint out.

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