Concealed within the borders of the Forest's canopy, Arlan raised his eyes at the empty space above him, and with a focused thought his hand reached into the Void of Ervon, a lightless and timeless dimensional place accessible only to practitioners of the higher magics. When his hand emerged, he held a satchel of five-hundred year-old gear, as new as if he had stowed the items just a day before: typical Mercian garb of blue thigh-length tunic, gray trousers and soft black leather boots, a slender, unmarked double-edged sword and sword belt, and a pouch filled with gold and silver crowns— the coinage of the Empire. Certainly nothing to reveal that he was of the Conclave, for in these parts a druid's presence was a rare enough occurrence that he would stand out like a beacon to his Enemy's watchful eyes. Before he had left for this quest he had stored the items as an afterthought. He never knew until very recently how useful his foresight would be.

The scarred man quickly donned the clothes and belted the sword. With the rapier and his ugly scar he would readily pass for a mercenary or a merchant's guard. Images of his spell-sword, Fyr, as he danced the forms before Blade Master Megas, flashed briefly in his thoughts before he pushed it away. Fyr and the Conclave were hundreds of leagues away. He was out of practice, with a plain untried blade, but in this place no one would bother to note the difference. He slung the pack over his shoulder, and strode toward the town of Llewelyn.

The druid passed by fields of purple kresh, very like the cornfields of Earth, and men driving wagons loaded with timber, until he came to the town itself. Up close, Cair Llewelyn resembled a military fort, albeit a crude one. He noticed that the stone walls surrounding the town were new, and— judging from the way the mortars had been laid— hastily built. Not more than a year perhaps, and he wondered why. Stranger still were the powerful wards that had been etched on the walls, visible only to one with the Sight.

He entered the gates, the guards barely giving him more than a passing glance. Mercenaries were a common lot in southern Mercia, where the Emperor's protective arm did not reach. In these remote parts the magister of each town or city holds more sway than the human Empire and its written laws.

Llewelyn was overall a prosperous town, rapidly turning into a small city. The streets fairly bustled with activity. Arlan saw a few of the non-human races: mandrakes, a handful of dwarves, and ogiers on some business of their own or simply looking for trade, but Llewelyn was predominantly a human town. Stores and shops, taverns and inns lined the cobbled streets, in no particular order.

Aside from the more mundane forms of livelihood, about a quarter of the establishments specialized in manipulating the power flows—called the "fae" in the Elvedheyn language, or "magic" as it is named on Earth— be it in the form of tools, spells, or services. 'Unlike Earth, our world still relies greatly on magic, and so it has always been. Technology is a farfetched word, as unreal to us as magic is to them', Arlan mused.

A rather fetching sorceress offered him a lover's potion, a man selling bladed weapons called out to him, and no fewer than five tavern wenches beckoned him, before he found what he sought.

Arlan perused the dozen or so steeds milling about in their stalls with a critical eye. Even without the Sight he knew exactly what to look for. The trader, a short man with graying hair, approached him cautiously. The druid could sense his wariness, clearly perturbed by the scar that always gave him a perpetual menacing look.

"I'm here to buy three of your best horses, man." Arlan said.

"The best will cost you, soldier." The trader warned him, clearly doubting his ability to close the deal.

The scarred man approached one of the steeds, a black stallion. Its proud head shied away from him, dark eyes wide and teeth bared, but at a whispered Word and a touch on its glossy mane the horse quieted down.

"This one," Arlan turned to the man.

"Spirited," the trader nodded in agreement. "But as you wanted, one of the best."

Arlan could tell the man was appraising him more closely this time: that he surely knew his business, and that there was something dangerous about him that warned anyone he associated with to tread cautiously. The druid was well aware his tall, heavily built frame gave most people the impression of a large forest predator, and though his sword was plain, worn at his side it looked deadly. He was not a mind reader, but nonetheless he sensed the trader thinking: Better close this deal cleanly.

"The brown mare and the gray will be to your liking, soldier."

Even as he said this, the druid was already eyeing the pair with approval. "How much for all three? And speak fairly, man."

For several moments, Arlan pretended to haggle with the short man. Twelve gold pieces was an exorbitant price, and although he could pay a hundred times that much, to the merchant he was only a common mercenary on an errand for his lord. Finally they agreed on ten gold pieces and four silvers, saddles and leather harnesses included.

As Arlan mounted the stallion, leading the mare and the gelding behind him, he noticed a pair of eyes watching him from the shadowy corner of a street.

'So much for discretion', he swore silently, as the figure withdrew into the darkness.