The so-called escort of twenty bandits moved ahead, their formation loose and wary, a pack of wolves cowed into obedient mutts. Weapons stayed sheathed, though many of their hands hovered nervously near hilts or axe handles — old habits dying slow, stubborn deaths.
Ludwig walked in silence, a step behind them, Oathcarver slung lazily over his shoulder.
The black blade hung there like an executioner's promise, its sheer presence ensuring none dared act foolishly.
The rest of the group followed.
Timur, arms folded, wore the same exasperated patience of a father indulging a reckless son.
Robin moved lightly, almost floating from shadow to shadow, his sharp gaze slicing into every false step the bandits made.
Gorak trudged along like a mountain on legs, each step deliberate and heavy, one hand resting idly on the massive axe strapped to his back.
