The distant light of the fire Wall illuminated their faces, reflecting harshly from the metal amulets they wore on their necks. They surrounded his camp, speaking quickly in tongues he could not understand.

Aborigines.
“What do you want?” Herik asked, standing up. He was terrified, but kept his face blank.
One of them (the leader, perhaps?) stepped forward and pointed at the burning town. “Do you go from that?” he asked, in broken Common.

“Yes,” he replied. When translated, the aborigines exploded in a flurry of words. Herik watched as they argued, resentment and anger obvious in their voices. And a hint of fear.

His bag was to0 far away to be of help, and the tomes in them would be useless; they could kill him before he managed to write a word. He thought of running, but the Writer knows what magic they might have placed in this clearing as he slept.

Finally, the voices died down, and the leader stepped forward once more, an amulet now in his hand.
He offered it to Herik, saying, “You are… strange.”