Hm. Says the man who can create fire from his skin like an ifrit in some long-forgotten folklore. How am I supposed to know what counts for average in this place?

[They're a good ways away from the heat before the other man speaks again, and for a few seconds Dito doesn't realize that he's actually given him his name. Dito inclines his head towards him, struggling to make out his features in the dim light so he can put a face to the name. But the man is infuriatingly determined to keep himself shrouded, and after a while Dito gives up.]

Dabi. [He speaks the name slowly, as if it has a flavor he's sampling.] Concise. Not too many syllables. I like it. I was never one for those family names-- always seemed kind of redundant.

[Not even mentioning the fact that he never really had a family, of course-- or at least, he doesn't remember if he had.]

You can call me Dito, by the way. It's the only name I got. The stick-in-the-mud at my side's called Bakari.

[The hyena utters a soft rumble of warning.]

Watch it, runt.