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Thistlemead tugged at the reigns before him, bringing his horse to a halt, ‘Thistlemead!’ he cried out, noting his own presence. Three men behind raised flags of red, waving them.
A single fire took to the sky in response.

‘Four years ago, we were beaten,’ began the old man as he addressed the crowd before him, ‘our homes were lost, our wives stolen, our children’s heads thrown at the walls as they came crashing down.
‘Now we are a notable force: one that simply cannot be ignored. We began with a number of five men; now we are in the hundreds! People in the Breelands, in the lands to the South, the North... we are a people.’

‘Who are you?’ asked the caravan-guard, his face bloodied, his bare chest bruised.

‘A friend,’ noted the man in black robes, his lips creeping into a discomforting smile, ‘this is what friends do, is it not?’

‘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,’

‘They are lost and leaderless,’ began the old man in a serious yet quiet tone, ‘their lands have been torn asunder by the passing of time.’

‘You tell me this,’ Thistlemead spat, ‘when I care very little? Should every single one of them starve, it would not affect me.’

The world darkened and the trees became silver silhouettes in the snow. There was nothing, save a single blue flame in the middle of the field; no people were there, no animals. Nothing but the remnants of long-dead trees and snow was present.
‘You know of his suffering,’ a voice spoke from the world, the very earth beneath him, ‘yet you continue to cause him pain?

Greyleaf let out a muffled cry, accompanied by violent choking and the sound of sticks clashing.
‘Beat him!’ the large man laughed sadistically, ‘break every bone! Crack his ribs and smash his limbs!’