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‘Leave now, for you do not know of me and what I am capable of,’ spat the large man as he brought his goods horse to a halt.

‘I know you very well,’ noted the thin man atop his horse, ‘you are Guthmor, a caravan guard... and a bandit,’

‘This has come from him?’ asked the old man as he rose, his greying hairs light and flowing, ‘you are certain?’

The man in black rose, his face covered almost entirely by the shade of his hood. He approached the other man, each of his steps a smooth flowing motion. ‘Welcome,’ said he, in a tone as queer and unsettling as it was genuine, ‘I trust you bring good news.’