Not too far from the main dock stood a swarthy small robust man with dark eyes, large hooked nose, and plaited raven black hair. A heavy oversized traveling cloak enfolded itself about his frame; pulled tight by large muscled arms scored with small cuts still fresh. He seemed upset. His burning looks to the shadows and back towards the center of the city were often and poorly concealed. He looked to the small group gathering at the docks and silently gave homage to the spirits of his ancestors. He took it as a sure sign they were ready to depart aboard the ship; a thing he sought. His left hand drifted to the pouch of coin he had collected over the past few months and a wry smile creased his shadowed face. The first one since his arrival at this city.

    He had traveled far, this warrior, on a quest for another traveler he had not yet known by name but by descriptions given to him by the Shamaness, Frocatta. For only this man could give him the answers to a riddle he had lived with all his life. A riddle of the tattoo on his chest still as fresh as the day he was found beside his dead mother within the jungles of his homeland; a segmented circle outlined by intricate borders.

    He had grown used to it with the passing of time and fruitless questioning that gave no answers. Even the wisest among the region could not tell him what it meant, despite numerous throws of the bones. He had come to assume it nothing more that decoration. Then it happened soon after his attending the 17th spring celebration to the spirits of the hunt. The symbol changed slightly. The segmented parts of the circle came closer to each other. The dreams came; murderous glimpses of carnage, a burly man unknown to him, and a tanned woman of beauty with dark alluring eyes. He awoke afterwards out in the valley jungle lying on a mattress of dead vegetation surrounding his sleeping spot, his muscles sore.

    The unnaturalness of it all terrified him, and prompted him to call upon the Shaman’s wisdom. When he had heard the warrior’s words the Shaman became worried.

"Ah, so all of this involves that strange traveler from so long ago" said Boklarnar, "I recognize his description. This is indeed a revelation, though I am not sure if it for good or ill."

Thick brows furrowed in thought as Dregnokt asked, "Who is this person?"

    From what I recollect he was a wanderer from the civilized lands who stayed in our valley for two seasons hunting, trading with the fiercer tribes of the mountains, and exploring. What he was seeking he never shared with the shaman’s of the villages. He was an unpleasant one to deal with, so most of us avoided him.

He did not stay in the valley?

    The elderly shaman chuckled a moment; "I believe given the choice he would have. However, he was caught in the bedding furs of a mountain chieftain with his wife and daughter. We soon learned he had taken others from other villages including our own using some charm to assay their will. He did not stay to defend himself. Instead, he set fire to his lodge and was last seen heading west towards those that wear earth mothers tears.

    Cold water dripped from the eaves above and dribbled down his muscled back; halting his momentary reverie. His left arm throbbed with dull pain. He rubbed it rapidly and thought again of his most recent fight. One, which brought him no honor. It was characteristic of his bouts with the "civilized" peoples of these teeming villages, but he was learning, and quickly as a matter of survival. It was good he had collected enough coin. He needed to get away.