It was an eerie calm, silent, the air still. Stars twinkled above in a cloudless sky. The black coat, embroidered in silver and red, hung past his knees as if carved from stone. His hand hovered over the revolver he had no intention of using. There were twenty of them, likely more. The rough band had their weapons ready; they had not spoken, nor directly threatened.
Argen took a step forward, hedging that Steven might buy him time or respect, “I am the Anointed Argen Teyr, apprentice to the fallen Honored Sir Steven Elan Trengale, the Hero of the Hinterlands,”
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