There's a faint creak from the room beyond that cracked-open doorway. If one of them happens to be at just the right angle, they might see a white-cloaked figure through the gap. The thud of Farogil putting his latest trunk of belongings down is probably louder than the creak, as is his tired groan after.

"Let's see, where shall you go? Over here on this chest I think," he narrates, voice soft as if he were having a delicate conversation. Except he's talking to himself and, apparently, to a cat. "Would you move please? I need you to move. Please move, sir. Please. You can lay on the bed. That would be nicer for you I think. Please? Please move. Here, will you move here? This is soft. Please move. Yes thank-oh. Move further please, sir."

He sighs heavily, "Alright, I suppose I'll leave it there for now. Perhaps you'll move when I come back. Sorry to bother you sir, yes, you go back to sleep. I think next is that sack of wool, perhaps you'd rather sleep on it instead of that wood. We'll see I suppose. I'm off."

And then he's headed back through the slightly-creaky door again to finish his moving.