A small boat arrives traveling from the east, coming to a stop at the western edge of the riverbank. It runs into the silt and slides to a slow creeping halt, and its sole occupant steps out. He was a large man, wide in the shoulders, standing few inches taller than the average man. His body was rippling with naked primeval force, and his strength and dexterity was clearly visible on his body. When his foot made contact with the river bank, his toes sank into it as he made no sound. Even his breath was hushed by breathing long and slow through his large nostrils. 

The Killing King, Mosi Musesma, was needed for his unique talents. He had been summoned by a strange glowing tablet whose words could be slid up and down its smooth black glassy surface. The words meant very little to him, he did not care about the why, or the who. He was a prophet of death, and when death called, he answered. It was meant to be that is all that matters.

The two allies who had already arrived, were mechanical men. They were positioned further ahead, and he was by the river outlet presently. He reached into the boat, pulling his five spears out, he looped them into the leather thong that was at the small of his back.  Keeping one in his hand, which his fingers squeezed gently. The feel of the wood grain against his palm was pleasant, these were freshly made spears. They felt young and new, they had not tasted blood yet. 

He stepped away from the boat, and moved towards the brush, his body bent, his knees pulled him low to the ground. The deep bronze of his skin becoming of one tone with the natural tones of the forest as he slid into the tall foliage. The scent of cooking came from the Northwest, brushing his nostrils as he sniffed the wind. He could smell the individual ingredients, the chef was not to his standard. This was an unfair assessment, as he was once a king, but it was an honest one.