[center][h1][color=dimgray]Caractacus[/color][/h1][/center]
Through the brush and bramble, a harried, haggard individual, wrapped in a thick grey cloak, struggled through the underbrush. He was flanked on both sides by a pair of zombies, one half-clad in the armor of the watch of some town long destroyed, the other a former soldier of the dark lord. It had been two weeks since the disastrous battle that left Caractacus both free from his servitude to the dark lord, and alone in the wilderness. Now, he was lost. Painfully, dreadfully lost. He hadn't encountered much as he wandered in what he hoped was the right direction. He skirted around a sacked town, stopping only to raise some protection for himself before moving on. On a couple occasions he ran into refugees, though they fled from the sight of him. Caractacus tried to be civil, and perhaps ask for some food or supplies, but it made no difference.

Caractacus stopped, hearing voices and footsteps, perhaps more refugees. Caractacus smoothed out his robe, and threw down his hood in an attempt at looking friendly. Stepping through the brush, Caractacus started with a prepared speech. [color=dimgray]"Greetings, I am Caractacus. Do not be afraid I--"[/color] Caractacus froze, finally taking in the sight before him. Not a pair of weary refugees, but two warriors, wielding weapons and clad in armor. One, a barrel chested man wielding a heavy axe, and the other a knightess with sword and shield. Both of them stood taller than Caractacus. For several seconds he stood in silent shock, before finally managing to put a few words together. [color=dimgray]"N-now hang on. Let it b-be known I do not serve the dark lord."[/color] As he spoke, he took two large steps back, putting his zombies between himself and the warriors.