<span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf">"<b>W</b>hoa... easy girls..." Typhen said sternly as his horses reared back a bit as the small wagon came to a quick halt. The man looked down to see a svelt figure prostrate over a large man clearly injured, and bleeding profusely. Getting down from his seated position, Typhen was dressed in a blue tunic, and bore the mark of the Wanderers, a long vertical scar that barely missed his right eye. <br/>
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They were thought to be gypsies of a sort, folk of the wastes who did not have homes, lived under the long blue sky, and practiced the old magics. Dangerous and not to be trusted, always suspected of one crime or another. Some where dark skinned and from the desert wastes in the west, others were fair, and from the long dark north where the sun shined but once a moon cycle. Typhen looked to be from the West.</span></span><br/><br/>"Westfold raiders, a little far from the Wastes... up to some nasty business. They'll be back for you eventually. To some, that fire on your head is worth a decent penny." He said sternly, seeing the value they had. The man was tall, and well built, a body hewn from some ebony stone, yet soft and quiet brown eyes that watched her suspiciously. It seemed as if he were deciding on whether to leave them be, or to get involved.<br/><br/>A moment past, he looked about, then sighed and cursed himself. "By the god's." A storm gathered on the horizon, the magenta flashes growing slightly brighter each minute. The wind picked up as well. Typhen knew that in an hour maybe two, the weather outside would be miserable.<br/><br/>"No quick moves now, I've got a bolt for you if this is a trick." Typhen warned, he displayed a small crossbow on his hip. He approached the man who she remained near. Coming to a knee, he could see the light was fading from the man, and with the nearest healer some miles away, there was little hope for him. The clothes marked him a stranger to the lands that Typhen knew, and a well-monied one at that, given the richness of the sword he carried. He withdrew a small flask from a pocket, unscrewed the top, and placed it to the man's lips. He drank a sip, but couldn't speak, the wound was too severe.<br/><br/>"I'm... sorry, little one. He won't last-" Typhen lamented. "I've seen enough death to know when someone is about to meet it."<br/><br/>"Tell him your goodbyes, it won't be long."