“I understand you want to see justice done, but you don’t have time to linger on my fate if you want to save Dierik Ironcoffer. The coins, the gems, keep them, the last of my humble fortune paid out as reparations for the damage I have wrought. I only need my weapons and your leave to be on my way, and you’ll have the map to the antidote.”
"We have heard your offer. It has been rejected," Pyotr states flatly. "Be aware, these are not men of Lastwall. These are mercenaries. If you truly value your skin, and if you have the ear of any of the gods... pray Dierik survives until we return."
Pyotr strides away purposefully. After saddling Torshen's Hammer, Pyotr swings into the saddle with slightly more skill and alacrity than he has shown so far. Hammer's bells ring an oddly cheerful note against the somber backdrop.
"How do we approach a man who has shunned the world and all its company?" Pyotr calls to the others, as Hammer's long stride carries him swiftly forward.
Alagor & Khozin
Alagor Faelan and Khozin Ryovaldii have just about seen enough of the Freedom Town. Their reasons maybe different, but it's clear that this wretched outpost of scum and villainy has nothing more to offer them. It's time for new horizons, even if those horizons are the dangerous ones to the north-west; the horizons of the Hold of Belkzen.
At least, that's the destination of the caravan that pulled into the Freedom Town this morning. Khozin got talking with a priestess of Desna, one Kelya Fylessi, who has been travelling with the caravan for some time. They got talking, and it appeared as if the caravan might be interested in hiring adventurers to protect it. Kelya recommended speaking to either the Trail Captain Dierik Ironcoffer, or his adjutant, Second Master Santrian.
Now, at the tail end of the afternoon, they stride into the laagered circle of wagons encamped a bowshot from the Freedom Town's palisade. Things are not as they should be.
There is an anxious hubbub running around the camp. The faces of the men and women show fear and concern. Nobody challenges the new arrivals, everyone seems too preoccupied, either talking earnestly together in low voices, or hurrying in and out of a large white tent in the centre of the laager, bearing buckets of water and piles of furs.
The overheard conversation of two drovers quickly reveals what has occurred.
"It's a poison. Virulent they say. The man yonder," the speaking drover indicates a wounded old greybeard trussed like a turkey to one of the wagon wheels "shot Dierik in plain sight with a hand-held crossbow, in the middle of Freedom's Square."
"What's being done?"
"The adventurers Dierik picked up in Vigil look to be going in search of an antidote. Kelya and Santrian are in the tent attending him, but it doesn't look good. He's been unconscious since the poison took hold."
The adventurers mentioned are gathered at the horse pickets, swiftly saddling their beasts and mounting up. Two half-orcs, one slender, one brawnier, and two humans, Chelaxians you'd wager, one with pale blonde hair, the other darker in his features.
"C'mon, it's time we earn our pay and find this hermit."
Hermit? This rings a bell with Khozin. His departed mentor Ohrim had known the misanthropic hermit of Curbril Wood and visited him on occasion.
"How do we approach a man who has shunned the world and all its company?"
A good question, but better yet is how to find the man. Although small, Curbril Wood is a labyrinthine tangle of stunted, malicious looking bushes and stooped, weary trees. Finding the hermit's hut is not an easy task, unless, as Khozin does, you already know the way.
The last time Ohrim had visited his friend he had been too sickly for his own feet to carry him. Khozin had helped him, lending an arm and encouragement as Ohrim had guided him through the wood's twisting trails. Yet Khozin had not met the notoriously unfriendly hermit, nor even seen him. Ohrim had entered the hut alone whilst Khozin waited outside.
Delkaneth
Del investigates Tharkon's belongings again. There's nothing he missed, but his cantrip reveals the potion containing the bear's claw to be magical, radiating a weak transmutative aura. As for the beggar's diamonds, Del isn't going to foolishly ascribe a great value to them as Pellius had. Baubles, probably no more than ten or twenty gold pieces each.
Pellius sees the two men approach and, preoccupied with his wounds and task ahead, swiftly dismisses them. "Hey. If you want to buy or sell supplies, go see the quartermaster or the cook if you got anything tasty to sell."
He breathes deep before tightening the cincha around the muscled midsection of Signior, "But now's not a good time so maybe it's best you came back later, eh?"
Moving slowly and purposefully into the laagered circle of wagons encamped near the palisade, Alagor tried to understand all the commotion and fuss that was all around them. Overhearing an exchange between two drovers helped him to get his bearings, but he was still unsure as to what to do next.
Swaggering sluggishly next to Khozin he caught the annoyed look of his acquaintance. "Told ya a thousand times man! I gotta a big frame, and small feet. If you add this thing on top of all..." - he pointed to the great sword which was slung across his back - "...and of course I will walk off balance. I'd like to see you try and walk straight carrying these monstrosities around!"
To a careful onlooker, a slight frown on Khozin's face and a smirk which was creeping near the edge of the lips of his friend, would be a sure sign that this discussion already took place numerous times in the past. However, their exchange was suddenly disrupted:
"Hey. If you want to buy or sell supplies, go see the quartermaster or the cook if you got anything tasty to sell. But now's not a good time so maybe it's best you came back later, eh?"
"Nah my good man, later may be too late. You see we're in awful hurry to leave this beautiful place, and from what I gather, your boss is in pile of trouble, fightin' for 'is life. Me, my good friend Khozin, and my even better friend Tanladvir here..." - and here Alagor gently patted his great sword, before continuing - "...as I was sayin' all of us are willin' to help"
Khozin rubs the meager stubble on his face as he listens to his friend's greeting. The half elf nods in agreement. "Just don't ask Alagor here to navigate for you." Khozin smirks. "It's said men are often led by their sword, though I admit I may be stretching the context a bit; as you might be able to tell, though, there are times Tanladvir leads, and Alagor can only follow."
"In all seriousness, though, I overheard you are looking for someone in Curbril Wood? Before his door was closed I once accompanied my teacher to meet an acquaintance there. I can't imagine there are many men that call the place home; perhaps I can lead you to the one you seek."
"In all seriousness, though, I overheard you are looking for someone in Curbril Wood? Before his door was closed I once accompanied my teacher to meet an acquaintance there. I can't imagine there are many men that call the place home; perhaps I can lead you to the one you seek. Who might you be?"
Pellius stops what he was doing for a second and silently curses himself for not paying attention. These men were clearly not selling anything. Remembering how he had 'applied' for employment not too long ago, the magus nods to the men, "Well met. I'm Pellius and we do need help right his minute."
He looks at the rest of his companions and particularly at Del, "Well, I'm not sure how much you trust your source Del but it seems this offer is the best we've heard. My gut feeling says we take it."
The magus clears his throat and turns back again to the strangers, "Well, how far is this place and what's your price?"
"A serendipitous turn of events," Pyotr intones. "Perhaps the Lady has not turned her eyes fully from Dierik's well being." The huge half-orc plods forward on his enormous charger.
Pyotr frowns as Delkaneth shudders. "Are you unwell? Were you exposed to that cowards poison?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you much about the man; I never met him. My teacher had taken a turn for the worst at that point. I had to escort him to the hermit's home, but I didn't follow him inside." Khozin shrugs to suggest the details don't matter. "The important thing is I can find my way back to the place."
The half-elf turns to Pellius to answer his question. "As for our price, I believe Alagor already mentioned it: We're looking to leave Freedom Town, and I heard you might be looking to hire a few extra hands. We can work for our way. Just let us join the caravan when you head out."
The half-elf turns to Pellius to answer his question. "As for our price, I believe Alagor already mentioned it: We're looking to leave Freedom Town, and I heard you might be looking to hire a few extra hands. We can work for our way. Just let us join the caravan when you head out."
Pellius finishes with his horse and nods in agreement, "Your offer sounds more than fair to me but I'm not the one with the money. For what it's worth, prove yourselves useful in this task and I'm sure that will go a long way to getting yourselves accepted."
The magus puts on his riding gloves and jumps on to Signior's back, "Well, time's a wasting. How far is this place? Are we ready to move out?"
How far is this place? Are we ready to move out?
The headwaters of the Path River and the small wood that grows there is not far from the laager, perhaps ten minutes on horseback or half an hour at a brisk walk.
Seeing the hold up involving the newcomers, Bonegrit lets a guttural rumble reverberate in the back of his threat out of frustration. His eyes shoot back to Dierik's tent, then to the assembly of yet-unsaddled horses behind their own mounts.
"Ain't got the barkin' time to be draggin' our feet here." Again eying the impressive array of equine specimens behind, Bonegrit rubs his chin—bearing more stubble by the day—and nods to himself. "Take the dwarf's horses. He's in town and not missing 'em. 'Sides, he owes me fer teaching 'em not to bolt in a scrap."
Bonegrit points a finger in the half-elf's direction. "Khozin, was it? Take Cornalium. Don't try anything fancy; Cornalium's stubborn around strangers." Turning then to Alagor, Bonegrit nods a brief greeting to the human. "Leaves you with Sard. Should be easy enough for ya to stay astride."
"Shard?!" - was all that Alagor was able to stutter. He follows half-orc's gaze towards the place where the rest of the horses were stabled.
OK, it's just a horse, nothing special. If they can ride it, then you can also. Just act normal, no big deal. Do whatever Khozin does and you'll be fine. Just slow and easy... - as much as he tried to hide it, dismay was clearly written on his face. Moving slowly, and trying to mimic movements of his friend, Alagor approaches Sard.
Not really knowing what he is doing, he tries to mount the horse for the first time in his life.
Before he knew it, he is in the saddle, being more surprised than a newcomer to Freedom town waking up without any possessions or clothes on his first "morning after". Very soon, surprise transforms into cockiness, and Alagor prods Sard ostentatiously, following immediately after the half-orc.
"The name's Alagor, Alagor Faelan of Tamrivena in Ustalav. And you'd be?"
Indeed, a small pile of Dunagan's packed possessions lie on the ground next to Cornalium and Sard, and both horses are saddled as if ready for a journey. The dwarf himself though, is not to be seen.
Alagor realizes some of his discomfort upon Sard stems from the fact he's sitting upon a pack saddle rather than one designed for real riding.
"Leave the dwarf his horses. His family is in crisis and he is soon to depart. Surely Deramil will have horses suitable to mount these without delaying our friend Dunagan."
"I am Pyotr the Unwelcome, Swordsworn of Vigil." The large half-orc jams an ornate silvered helm upon his head, though the hand with which he does so is conspicuously bare. "I am pleased to meet anyone charitable to our cause. If the Second-Master has no horses suitable to you, Torshen's Hammer is strong enough to bear two." The half-mountain sized half-orc pats the neck of the only steed whose frame dwarfs his. Small silver bells, whose light and playful jingling seem at odds with the taciturn half-breed and his enormous destrier, ring sweetly with each movement of mount and rider.
If the Second-Master has no horses suitable to you, Torshen's Hammer is strong enough to bear two.
“The Second-Master is indisposed, attending our leader, who is further indisposed still,” this interjection comes from First Master Deramil, who joins the party, leading a pair of saddled light warhorses. “These steeds belong to Callan’s guards, but if they can serve to find a cure for Dierik, I’ll loan them.”
The usually close-mouthed half-elf scratches at his long white beard idly, perhaps to express his discomfort at having had to put together an entire sentence for the benefit of these newcomers. Deramil gives no indication of recognising the elven blood he shares with Khozin.
Instead, he turns his attention to Bonegrit.
“See to it they are treated well and ridden fairly.”
Feeling some discomfort, despite what he considers an excellent handling of the horse, Alagor finally realizes that he is sitting on a pack saddle. The fact that it was another person's horse, a dwarf's horse actually, just worsens the awkwardness. The arrival of the half-orc is more then welcomed by Alagor, hoping for a quick way out of the ungraceful situation he was in.
"Ah Pyotr, very nice to meet you. Alagor of Tamrivena" - due to the blunder he just made, Alagor completely misses on the Unwelcome part of the Pyotr's name, or the fact that he is a Swordsworn of Vigil. Dismounting Sard, Alagor looks around the camp and notices that there is still a lot of confusion. Deciding quickly, he proffers the hand to the half-orc next to the sturdy looking mount decorated with several silver bells. "Actually Pyotr..."- but his sentence is cut short by the arrival of the half-elf leading a pair of horses.
Thank Desna, I did not have to say THAT proposition. Although judging how pale that Chelaxian is, and how twitchy he seem to be on that horse, it must be I am not the only one who dislikes horses - noticing Delkaneth shuddering, Alagor is quick to make a wrong judgement.
"As Khozin already stated it - we'll work for food and standard fare, as long as we can ride with you out of Freedom town. So let us go and find that hermit, and the cure for your...our Boss, shall we?"
I wonder what standard fare is anyway these days for the caravan guard?! - Alagor muses all the while trying to climb atop one of the horses loaned by First Master Deramil.
The journey to Curbril Wood is a brief one by horseback, and the party of six encounter nothing but a few wandering goats on the way. The wood itself isn’t much to speak of, but it’s a bigger congregation of trees than the adventurers have seen anywhere else in their travels in Belkzen. Perhaps covering an area half the size of the Freedom Town, it nestles in a gently sloping valley, scattered trees rapidly multiplying into a tangle of different species; predominately dwarf oaks, alders, paleleaf and bogmistle. Entangling the weary looking trees and snaking their way over any stretches of bare ground are large patches of Belkzen brambles with their wicked, tricorn thorns.
Towards the centre of the wood the trees grow a little taller, and their crowns are littered with the messy stick nests of a rookery, the scruffy rooks finding ample leftovers to scavenge on the streets of the Freedom Town.
The combe deepens and grows rockier as it heads southeast. Here the Curbril Wood ends and reveals three merry little brooks flowing out of the trees, the beginnings of the proud Path River that flows past Vigil.
The tangles of bramble and low scrub will make it hard going on the horses, but there are plenty of handy trees to tether them to. By the contentment of a trio of goats idly chewing nearby, they’d probably be safe from predators if left unattended.
You recognise the beginning of the trail you took with Ohrim, a dark avenue leading into the overhanging wood just beyond the ruin of an alder that grew too tall and was struck by lightning.
Pellius dismounts and does his best to avoid the grunt that follows his landing. He breathes deep as he walks Signior to a nearby tree. The magus checks his side bandage to make sure everything is still in place and turns to the half-elf, "Khozin? Here's where you start proving your worth. Are we on the right path? Did you reach the hermit on foot?"
Pyotr dismounts quickly, leaving Hammer's rein cinched loosely to a sturdy branch. Torshen's Hammer shakes his head and wickers lightly at the cavalier treatment by his rider. After his mild rebuke, the patient steed begins winnowing through the moss and leaves, munching through the scrubby grass that grows on the edge of the wood.
Pyotr props his lance against a nearby tree. He walks a few steps along the perimeter scanning the ground for tracks or signs of habitation. "I have heard tales of woodsmen and nature priests. Some say they can move through the thickest brush, never disturbing twig nor leaf, nor leaving the lightest print in dirt or mud. I hope he remembers you fondly, Khozin, else he may never be found."
Khozin shifts unconfortably in the saddle, unwilling to dismount for fear that his inexperience with horses would hinder him should he have to return to the saddle shortly. "I can't say I remember doing anything to earn his distaste. I think you would have more to worry about my memory." The half elf grins as he nods to the burnt-out husk of a large alder. "Luckily, the landmarks that mark the path are notable enough that even an addled mind would be hard-pressed to forget them. Our path begins here, down a narrow path next to the dead tree and into the Wood."
Pyotr grunts as he moves into the thinnest section of trail, and still manages to tangle his armor and sword in the tight-growing branches. "I suspect our host would not thank me for carving a path through this overgrown bramble... Tree worshipers are such an odd lot. Perhaps another should lead. I will do my best to keep up."
Riding very gently, with careful moves, deliberately slow so he does not confuse the horse, Alagor arrives at the tail of their small column. Not really adept at controlling the horse, he makes few additional circles before he is able to bring his mare to a stop and dismount it warily. Following the lead by the others, he ties his steed loosely, remembering almost as an afterthought to give it a few light pats on the neck.
Seeing that Khozin seems to know the way, and if no one objects, Alagor takes his place near the end of their walking line. Imitating Delkaneth, he draws his big sword nonchalantly and spends several precious moments making sure that large blade is securely fixed inside his metal glove. Then he proceeds after his companions, moving slowly along the trail.
Goats, everywhere goats...I can't leave Freedom Town and it's bloody goats soon enough
Arching an eyebrow and looking Delkaneth over warily, Bonegrit shakes his head quickly before exhaling a low reply. "Can't say anything's wrong with me. I figger they didn't like the taste of orc meat. Here, let's go find this barkin' hermit already." Bonegrit appreciates the candid moment with the Chelaxian, but every second is precious in respect to Dierik's survival.
Finished tethering Amiro, Bonegrit points towards the trail ahead and quickly slides to the forefront of the gathering of would-be saviors. He taps Khozin lightly on the thigh with the tip of his bow as he passes him, waving the half-elf close to him as he continues towards the thicket. "I'll find us a path. Stay close. Easier to get lost and split up in thickets like this than most people think, yeah?"
__________________________________________________
Pyotr’s brief survey of their surroundings reveals numerous signs of human passage, likely from several different individuals at different times, but there’s nothing to tell him anything distinct. Considering the proximity of the town, it’s quite likely the Curbril Wood is visited regularly by hunters and foragers.
Starting at the lightning-struck alder, Khozin and Bonegrit lead their companions into the trees. Soon enough, the vegetation closes in about them, the brambles clinging to their limbs and low-hanging branches often forcing the taller men to bend over double. The path splits and splits again, challenging Khozin’s recollection of the route he took with Ohrim; with the Spring rains the vegetation has grown quickly, and the lie of the land is not as it was.
On several occasions Bonegrit notes the tracks of a large, barefooted man who seems to be roaming these trails with regularity. Unlike at the borders, there are no signs of other people moving about the wood’s interior.
After about ten minutes struggling through the undergrowth they come to a small clearing. Dead leaves litter the muddy ground and from a small jumble of boulders a spring emerges and flows away down the valley.
Two different paths lead onwards. Khozin thinks the track he took with Ohrim is the one leading up the opposite side of the valley, a way thick with particularly dense clumps of bramble. On the other hand, Bonegrit can only see the barefooted tracks on the other trail, which leads down the valley following the stream.
Bonegrit follows the tracks for several yards ahead alongside the stream, only stopping when he notices Khozin lost in thought in consideration of a different path. He shoots an inquisitive glance to the rest of the party before cocking his head once more in the direction of the half-elf. Urgathoa's teets, don't tell me the barker's already lost. Clearing his throat and indicating the very apparent barefoot-trail through the muddy ground, Bonegrit calls out to his new companion, a hint of vexation creeping into his tone. "Tracks are followin' the stream further down. Nothing's gone through that bramble thicket."
"Perhaps not recently, but I'm thinking I helped my teacher through it when he visited the hermit. Then again, it has been a while ..." Khozin scratches his scalp quizzically as he continues to ponder the two paths.
"Why would he move?" Pyotr follows Bonegrit's lead towards the stream, the tracks clear enough even to his eye. At the edge of the clearing, he doubles back and goes to the entrance to the further trail.
"This is a man who does not wish to be easily found..."
A quickening breeze passes through the branches above them as the adventurers contemplate the two trails. Somewhere amidst the mossy boulders of the spring, a frog begins to croak.
Pyotr shakes his head in frustration. "Better to trust the evidence of our eyes than the memories obscured by time. I suppose we could search along both paths..." the half-orc yanks out a twig wedged between the scales of his tarnished armor, "though I do not envy the party that searches that trail."
Pellius shakes his head, "No, I disagree. We have no idea who that trail belongs to and we don't have the luxury of time to explore. Our best bet is to follow on Khozin's recollection so lead on."
On several occasions Bonegrit notes the tracks of a large, barefooted man who seems to be roaming these trails with regularity. Unlike at the borders, there are no signs of other people moving about the wood’s interior.
Breaking through the undergrowth, Alagor makes sounds which can be heard for dozens if not hundreds of yards around. He steps on twigs, his great sword constantly is getting stuck in the bramble shrubbery and he curses quiet often, and rather loud. A long and very creative string of profanities is cut abruptly when he finally sees the clearing.
"Ah, water!" - he exclaims while moving slowly towards a small jumble of boulders where a spring emerges. This armor is so damn heavy, I'm sweating like a pig...Well, at least there are no goats around
"Don't know much about tracks and stuff, but if Khozin thinks that it's on the opposite side of the valley, then we should head there. Delkaneth is right - if that recluse does not wanna be found, it has to be the hard way. Let me just freshen'up a bit and we can move on."
Somewhere in the far distance, in the east where the Hungry Mountains separate Ustalav and Lastwall, thunder booms softly. The six adventurers contemplate the two trails.
You catch a faint whiff of wood smoke on the breeze. It’s coming from downstream, in the direction of the trail with the bare footprints.
The thick, tricorn shaped thorns of the Belkzen bramble make good caltrops. Ten minutes careful harvesting and a DC 15 Survival check gathers enough suitable thorns to be the equivalent of one bag of caltrops. These thorn caltrops are destroyed after use. There’s enough brambles around that you could harvest the thorns in great quantities, although the adventurers may not have the time . . .
Did Bonegrit inform us of that specific set of tracks or not?
I think we can assume that for the sake of expediency.
"Somethin' is down this way. If it ain't the hermit, maybe they can confirm a straighter path to get to him. There's tracks further down, and smoke on the wind. When I can't trust my eyes, I trust my nose; and my nose agrees with my eyes." Not waiting for protest or agreement, Bonegrit again sets his focus to the tracks that meander off in the same direction as the spring waters; an admittedly easy task given the mud into which the prints lay.
Of the bramble he leaves, Bonegrit merely makes a mental note. There will be plenty of time to collect such a boon at a later time. For now, the fate of his employer and friend weigh too heavily on his mind to give them anything beyond a passing consideration.
Pyotr stands aside to allow the others to precede him. After the others make their start, Pyotr dives once again into his personal struggle against branch and bramble. "I was not built for such terrain," the broad-built half-orc growls as he once again tears his pauldron free from a grasping, low-hanging branch.
The decision made, Bonegrit leads the adventurers down the combe, following the path of the merrily babbling brook. The going is a little easier provided one is happy to splash through the shallow water of the stream.
Soon the scent of woodsmoke is strong enough for everyone to smell, and after only a few minutes the brook winds through a small clearing encircled by tall alders.
In the centre of the clearing () is a dwelling that makes the ramshackle structures of the Freedom Town appear as mansions or palaces. It almost looks as it was thrown together by the winds of a storm rather than made by human hands. Its components are almost entirely natural, crazily leaning limbs of fallen trees forming the main supports, walls constructed by interwoven willow wattles daubed with mud from the stream, a roof of bracken fronds, dethorned lengths of bramble tying the whole thing together, an irregularly shaped doorway covered by the skin of a large boar and even a window with a curtain of hanging moss. It doesn’t take an architect to realise this hut doesn’t do a good job at keeping out the elements. None of the scavenged building materials look to be particularly old.
Smoke from the cooking fire within filters through the roof (there is no chimney) and assorted bits of junk (broken ceramics, scrap iron, filthy strips of leather and fabric, the smashed components of a wheelbarrow) no doubt discarded by the people of the Freedom Town lie scattered messily around the clearing.
His feet rustling ever so softly over the fallen leaves, Delkaneth makes a stealthy recce of the hut. The adventurers have approached from the side facing the clearing and the stream, the ‘building’ backs onto a stand of thickly twisted undergrowth, though Del notices a few trails winding their way the wood to arrive at the hut’s backdoor. This portal is similarly hung with a boar’s skin to serve as a door. Domestic detritus litters the area behind the hut, and through the scraps a lone hen, tied to a stake by a length of twine about its leg, pecks and scrabbles. Leaning against the wall is a bec de corbin with a rusted head.
Delkaneth creeps a little closer, halving the distance between himself and the hut. From within he can hear the sounds of movement, snatches of tuneless humming, and the occasional clink of ceramic and metal, suggesting its inhabitant is cooking.
Pyotr hangs back, standing ankle deep in the frigid stream water, as Del makes his clandestine approach. As Alagor and Khozin splash up beside him, he leans in and whispers, "Are we trying to take him unawares? Should we not announce ourselves?"
Pellius is confused, "Why are we sneaking around and all? We have done nothing wrong and our intentions our good. We need to find a cure for our leader."
The magus clears his throat, "I'll go and talk to him. Hopefully, the man will appreciate an honest soldier."
With that Pellius saunters over to the 'hut'. Clapping loudly to get the attention of whoever was inside, "Hello there? Sir? We have urgent need of your expertise in the botany field. Can you please help us?"
"Hello there? Sir? We have urgent need of your expertise in the botany field. Can you please help us?"
The boar’s skin jerks aside and the inhabitant of the hut steps out into the clearing. His ragged appearance is of little surprise considering the state of his abode.
The hermit is a tall man, probably closer to forty winters than thirty, with the look of someone whose former portliness has been diminished by hard living. He’s got a thick, ginger beard, wild and scruffy as a bird’s nest, although the hair atop his head is stringy and sparse. He’s clad in tattered castoffs, not a single garment hangs from his body which isn’t soiled and rent with holes. He’s completely barefoot, and his broad, bare feet are filthy. He bears no weapons.
His grey eyes boggle somewhat at the appearance of six armed and armoured men outside his home.
“And who might you be?” he asks suspiciously, one eyebrow raised quizzically.