‘Who are you?’ asked the caravan-guard, his face bloodied, his bare chest bruised.
‘A friend,’ noted the man in black robes, his lips creeping into a discomforting smile, ‘this is what friends do, is it not?’
‘You are no friend of mine,’ spat the caravan-guard as he approached the other man. His two watchers quickly made for him, halting upon seeing the man in black robes raise his hands.
‘Remove his bindings,’ commanded the man, ‘and bring him some water; have clean clothes prepared for him.’
The caravan guard’s bindings were undone, and he sat across the desk from the other man. The table was of a rich wood; it was of a dark reddish tone, upon it were many stacks of paper and several tomes, and three inkpots.
‘What do you want?’
‘An inquisitive mind,’ noted the man in a tone as sarcastic as it was serious, ‘do you truly believe I want something from you?’
‘Why else would you have me be set upon by your followers,’ the caravan guard began, ‘and then have me be beaten for three days and three nights?’
‘My followers, you say?’ smiled the other man, ‘I have no followers; only friends.’
For some time, the two discussed random topics; many questions were asked, many points were raised, and an offer was made. It soon became apparent to the caravan-guard that he was in the presence of a strange man; indeed, upon every opportunity he had to slay him, he simply couldn’t.
‘I will find these three men,’ noted the caravan-guard, as he tore into a loaf of bread with his right hand, cheese in his left, ‘I will find them, and bring them to you.’
‘Thank you.’
