‘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,’
At once, the caravan guard unsheathed a sword from the pack atop his own horse; gripping its hilt, he pointed the blade at the thin man. ‘Leave,’ he began, ‘leave now or I shall strike you down.’
‘Very well,’ said the thin man, who promptly pulled at his reigns, forcing his horse to turn and carry him away. The large man watched as the figure disappeared in the distance, growing smaller as it moved further north.
As he came up a hill, Bree was sighted: a village, a small town at best, in his eyes. Approaching, a sudden grip took him in his legs; he found himself lying on the floor, grass and dirt in his mouth. Trying to stand, he failed, and soon he saw a leather boot ahead of him.
In one fell strike, the world grew clouded. After another similar strike, the world grew black.
