A man and his horse emerged from the woods, the sound of hooves moving slowly on the main road announcing their arrival. The horse was large and black, a stallion and a war-horse of excellent breeding -- Zerrikanian, perhaps. He trotted along at a leisurely pace, his head proud and high, and his eyes were free of blinders. Their absence spoke of the steed’s fearlessness. The saddlebags across his flank, clearly well-worn but expertly maintained, were crafted from fine and sturdy leather and they suited the horse’s rugged spirit. Odd, however, was the antlered skull of a dead monster that was strapped to the horse’s rump with a few strands of rope. It bounced gently with the stallion’s tread, but the animal did not seem to mind.

The man was cloaked and armored, his face hidden in the shade of his cowl against the warm sunlight, leaving only black wool and grey steel of to speak for him. Two swords were sheathed across his back -- of expert craftsmanship, judging by the pommels, both incorporating the majestic and scornful countenance of the griffin into their designs -- beneath the unmistakable wooden frame of a lute, the instrument’s strap diagonally stretched across his cuirass. His belt was lined with a variety of pouches, a few glass vials filled with strange and opaque substances, and the scabbard of a Redanian dagger. Another one was strapped to his boot. Anyone who knew anything about anything would recognize the man for what he was at first glance, and the medallion on his chest, suspended on a chain around his neck, would confirm it for sure. The man was a witcher. 

And the witcher’s name was Morgan. He had been told to look for an upright stone, the size of a man and the shape of a boot, but he had no need to look for the stone anymore. He’d smelled the meal roasting over the campfire from a mile off and picked up the idle chatter of the men not long after. He guided his horse away from the main road and after a few dozen yards the trees parted for him, revealing a small path that led up to the meeting place -- with the promised stone standing proudly in the center. Smoke wafted up and lazily drifted away from the campfire and men were scattered about it in the inimitable way of people waiting for something. More important, however, were the individuals immediately in front of him. 

Morgan eyed them all in turn. A woman with dark skin and darker hair, curly and wild, and a spear in hand. A Nazairi, if he had to guess, who he knew to be fierce and unruly people -- but capable warriors, if anything. Next was the man he expected to be Balidvar, the king’s bastard. Such associations and pedigrees were meaningless to Morgan, who had precious little respect for the so-called lords and rulers of mankind, and he instead evaluated the man as he saw him. He saw something hard and tough in his eyes, and the skewed set of his nose betrayed that he was no stranger to violence. A cunning bastard with something to prove. Morgan exhaled slowly through his nose -- he knew the type, and could only hope that Balidvar wouldn’t try to boss him around… for his own sake. 

Last but not least was the sorceress, for she obviously was one. No other woman would have been dressed like that for such an expedition. Morgan had met a few of them throughout the long decades of his life and his relationship with them had been… complicated. On one hand, their mastery of magic intrigued him, as all Griffins are wont to do, and they were capable and intelligent individuals. On the other hand, he didn’t trust any of them any further than he could toss a cyclops. They were schemers and manipulators of the highest order, and his piercing, feline eyes lingered on her the longest before he tore his gaze away and dismounted from his horse, boots dropping onto the forest floor with a heavy thud. 

The witcher grabbed his horse by the reigns and walked past the trio, black cape trailing behind him, to carve out a place for himself in the temporary camp. He caught Balidvar’s gaze in passing but said nothing to the bastard. They both knew why Morgan was there. If their glorious leader had something to discuss, he’d wait for the man to approach him and not the other way around. Morgan’s eyes flitted from one worker and soldier to the next. Invariably, they looked at him with suspicion, wariness or disgust. The witcher was used to it. 

“Here, Charlie,” Morgan murmured to his horse and tied his reigns around the stump of a tree before straightening up and running his hands down the sides of the horse’s face. “Some nice grass for you. Maybe one of the cooks has a treat for you later, eh? How about that?” His voice was hoarse and gruff from disuse, but his tone was soothing and Charlemagne -- having felt the hostile energy of those already gathered there -- nickered quietly as he relaxed. “Good boy.” 

Morgan turned around to find most of the camp still staring at him and he sighed. “Go on, back to work,” he called out, his beard hiding most of his grimace. Only his eyes, the irises aglow in the gloom of his hood, were clearly visible, and their intensity was enough to avert everyone’s gaze as they hurried themselves to look busy. Morgan growled something unintelligible and sat down on the same stump he’d tied his horse to, unburdening himself his lute, and pulled one of his swords free from its sheath. The silver blade gleamed in the sun, except where black blood stained the precious metal. Morgan produced cloth and some oil for his pouches and started wiping down the blade with slow and methodical motions, eyes cast down and focused on his task. 

One of the two witchers had arrived.