<br/>Three lines of dust rose from the ground of the hills outside Katheer, in Quadira. Each followed a well-bred Quadiran horse, galloping at full speed, nostrils flaring and flanks shining with sweat. Two of the riders were Quadiran, loose garments flapping wildly as they rode, while the third was Madadh, bowed low over the back of his own mare, shirtless and occasionally letting out a joyous whoop to encourage his mount forward. He was losing to the others, but it did not matter. They had begun the race for the fun of it, not to determine who would win.<br/><br/>As the city drew ever closer, Madadh began to draw closer to the other two, his mount having more endurance for sprinting than theirs even if she did have less speed, but it was not enough. They passed through the gate several seconds before him. Nonetheless, he did not hesitate to praise the grey mare lavishly, and took his time rubbing her down afterward instead of sending her off with a stableboy. She had done very well, and deserved more than to be sent off to the stable with no further ado. The two temporary friends he had made during his stay were waiting for him in the tavern (more of a lounge, really) when he arrived, but more interesting was the messenger that likewise awaited him, handing him a sealed letter bearing the emblem of the Pathfinder Society.<br/><br/>“I believe you owe us each a round, Madadh.” One of the two said once the messenger had gone. The young man laughed, buying a drink for all three of them. The letter waited, unopened, until later in the evening when the three parted ways. Then, in his room at the inn, Madadh broke the seal and held the letter near the single candle by the bedside, squinting at it in the dim lighting.