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	‘What?’  The man on the ground uttered his delayed reply to the rider, having heard very little of what he had said. But then he realised that maybe his reply was too soft to be heard, and duly spoke up a little; ‘I didn’t really hear what you said there, buddy, wanna run that by me one more time?’

The rider couldn’t have been a day over thirty, and despite his thin build, sloping shoulders, crane-like neck and disproportionately large head, his stiffly posture gave no illusions to his bloated ego. Yet the capricious stare of his beady blue eyes - combined with his sharp beak-like nose and thin upper lip - gave the immediate impression that he was unstable and couldn’t be trusted. The only features that managed to subtract from this shifty aura, though not doing a crack-up job of it, was the air of distinctive dignity portrayed by the salt-and-pepper goatee that matched diligently to the loose ponytail of his long, wavy black hair, which was, despite his apparent age, also silvering about the temples and nape. 

‘I [i]said[/i],’ he replied in the former suspicious tone, though now with additional impatience, ‘that it is not safe to be sleeping on the side of this particular road. You should know this, unless you are not from around these parts.’ 

‘Ah right, yes. Heard ya that time,’ said the man, who remained splayed on the ground with his back against the tree while keeping one curious eyebrow raised to the rider. He was feeling a little unsettled about various aspects of his current situation. One such related aspect was the object still digging into his lower back. Initially, while lying on the ground, he had figured it was just a rock, but - since it was still digging into him while sitting back against the tree - he realised that no, it was not a rock, rather his handgun lodged in the leather belt of his jeans. Being in possession of a firearm wouldn’t have always been problematic for the man, but in this particular situation such a weapon would need to be stowed away unless absolutely needed. Fortunately, the gun was currently out of sight, but that could not be said about his attire. Blue denim jeans, black Gerson boots, white snug-fit T-shirt, brown leather jacket and an imitation Rolex watch strapped to his wrist; an ensemble just as far detached from the outmoded clothes of the rider as the handgun was to the sword housed in a sheath on the riders back.  

Now, having not received his idea of a substantial response, the rider was about to crack with anxiety as he continued to scrutinise the man below him. Yet somehow, despite himself, he managed to set aside the strain brought on by the man’s less than cooperative behaviour and decided to proceed with another question waiting in line to be asked.

‘Perhaps you could share your name, then?’

‘Sure.’ The man answered with an uneasy smile, and then he lied. ‘My name’s Jack. How about you?’  

The rider took a moment to sneer sceptically at the man before he reciprocated. ‘My name is Theolan.’ He paused for effect, raising his chin as if he had spoken a word that should be revered by anyone fortunate enough to hear it. ‘Sir [i]Mallicone[/i] Starlip Theolan.’ He expounded, then turned his hooded eyes of contempt down at the man. ‘[i]Jack[/i], you say? That is quite an [i]unusual[/i] name. Not sure if I have had the displeasure of hearing it before, though I am sure I would have remembered. From where do you hail, Jack?’