A group of lean, feral looking men stepped out from the tree line. Their riding leathers half soaked in sweat, easy grips on their weapons. Not good. They bore the mark of active mercenaries. Men used to dealing in death, but not yet fat from its profits.

The scribe bowed his head and muttered a hasty prayer to Zemalkis, the god of fortune. “Don’t fuck me harder than normal, you arrogant prick,” he added an amen and looked back at the men headed his way. Fates above, he found it funny to miss Arkes. But here he was in the Temari wilderness within reach of active mercenaries wishing for the presence of a decidedly worse man.

The scribe donned a shroud and prayed at least one gods fearing man in the group stayed the hands of the others. He prayed the Letheno would understand the need for his deception. He’d leave coins at his altar if he survived. Might as well toss the dice if you’re already halfway in the grave.

The leader had an ambling gait, one that could break into a run if needed, but knew he didn’t. “‘Lo, stranger. Not safe to travel solo round these parts.” No malice crossed his face, but it looked closer to the kinder side of forty than thirty, and any mercenary that experienced signaled trouble. The older, the steadier. The steadier, the longer it lasted. “Boys, go on and give our friend a hand with his stead,” he said pointing at the scribe’s worn pony. It wasn’t a riding mount, but a baggage companion. More importantly, it was the scribe’s lifeline.

The men rifled through the few bags the scribe had before turning back to the man.

“Ain’t no food in here. No wine neither,” a weaselly man said staring at the scribe with beedy little eyes. The scribe gave a sorry shrug and faced the leader.

“Don’t have much outside of some inks and paper scraps. Not the best taste to them.” The beedy eyes mercenary grabbed the scruff of the scribe’s robe and jerked him forward.

“You playing with us, boy?” He looked around at the other snarling faces and the distant mountains beyond.”

“Just explaining my empty stomach. Surprised I made it this far.”

“Step off, Finnen,” the leader moved towards the scribe. “Not normal for a scribe to wander the wilds. Where’s your party?”

The scribe grimaced, “I was part of a pair. Could say I was trying to chronicle his story.”

“Whose story?”

“Arkes.” No more was needed than that. The leader turned back to his men and let out of a short whistle. He gave the scribe one more hard look before shaking his head.

“In his company or not, he’ll be your death. But we won’t have any part of it.”