Horselord had seen this large ruddy man, broad as the altai and strewn in white scars. His look is one of a mercenary who outlived years of employment. He made himself useful, and at a distance the nomad, who worried that settled life was dulling his own instincts, had come to favor him.

Shrugging the deel from his shoulders, Batu trots towards the huntsman. He'd never watched the man speak, nor heard his voice.

“Want a partner?”

“Batu.”

He nods and an easy trot is found beside Layre, whose immense stride breaks him into a good pant. The jiji has begun to thaw, sweeping scents of maytime and frost undertow where it mixes in with the hunter’s busk. He smells unlike them and speaks without their accent.

“Where is it you come from?” On the trade roads he'd met red-pelted diplomats and towering nords, but this man the nomad could not yet place.