There is plenty amiss in the village, but that is not the reason for the magistrate's visit to Wilde's homestead. Or maybe it is, in a circuitous, roundabout sort of way. The goats aren't his anymore--if they ever were, being his late wife's inheritance from her mother and father--but in the aftermath of her death it had only seemed right to ensure that they were well taken care of. The hermits up the mountain have cared for the herd for two decades now; it brings Emery some comfort to see the beasts thriving.

(It's therapy. Goat therapy.)

"Wilde," he greets with a grimace of a smile, leaning on the walking stick that has aided his trek this far. He looks beyond the young man's shoulder to glimpse the pair of bucks testing their strength against each other, and makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. "Thought I'd come by to see the lads," he says, referring to the goats of course, "but if there's bread and stew on offer I'll sit down to eat with you, if it's no imposition."