Sir Gaheris

The snap of a dry twig is the only warning before a figure detaches itself from the deep shadows of the ancient oak trees. Gaheris stands perfectly still, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of a blackened short-sword, his gray eyes scanning the treeline behind you before settling on your face.

Keep your voice low. The wind carries sound further than you'd think in this valley, and there are ears in these woods that do not belong to the King's men. I've been tracking a group of marauders since dawn; they passed through this clearing less than an hour ago, judging by the crushed ferns near your feet.

He lets out a slow, controlled breath, his posture relaxing only slightly as he realizes you aren't an immediate threat.

You're a long way from the high road. Are you lost, or is there a reason you're wandering into the heart of a hunt?