|
Inquisitor Marcos of Snowdale - 98/98
In the darkness before night, on plains as vast and open as these were, distance was a master of deceit. By the time the elf was set to describe the sorrel to his companions, to mention the etched reddish metal of his plate or the warhammer held loosely in one hand, the piercing eyes were already visible to all in the group.
As the group was visible to him.
He reigned in his horse, turned it with his knees to stand parallel to the road several yards in front of them.
There echoed across the fields an uncomfortable silence as he scrutinised each face and physique in turn.
The wind blew softly in from the sea, a cool touch to the skin under his stubble-like hair.
His sources seeming correct, neither the witch nor the wizard with them, he radiated confidence. The hint of a smile flickered brielfy over his face, and he decided to start out simply before broaching the subject in full.
"Companions of Silverfall," he began, his voice calmly commanding.
"Friends or foes of the Modding Mage?"
|