>>6006344. . . three men on horseback approach. Cantering slow. A flag, sanguine cloth waving in the wind held by one. The others have wide-brimmed hats against the sun and weeks of unattended beard-scruff marring their faces. One is short an eye.
They pause some distance away. Doesn't say much. Eyes Koras light retinue up and down, until, eventually, one shrugs and holds out a hand, palm outward. He's wearing gloves, tinged by some chemical. He reaches into his coat, slow, slow, and pulls out - slow - a single message tube.
Eyes the distance.
Lobs it, underhanded.
One of your retinue stands in the saddle and grabs it in the air.
The back half of the trio of scruffy looking strangers scoff, mutter something in a tone you don't quite catch. Maybe he's commenting on the agility of your outriders. Job done, one of them gives you - and by implication the entire panapoly of the force that is arranged against them - a wave of his hand as if to tell you to sod off, he's got more important work to do than whatever impediment to his day you're going to be. He turns his horse around. It takes him two tugs of the reins, and the horse noisily whines as the bits dig into its cheeks. Whatever these people are, riding is, at best, a tertiary concern.
They begin a slow trot back to the slight fortified station up ahead.
