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A little further along the stone and its pitted wind. The greenery is fighting fierce for every bit of rock and grows dense. The cavalry-scouts navigate along the rocky surface, happy to simply be riding on solid, proper ground and not the cracked hoof-trap of the last twenty miles.
A horse whinies, detecting a change in the air. There, yes, we smell it too. Campfires! Cookfires! Low chatter. Friends, and companions and the famous march soup of the 2nd. . .
<span class="mu-i">. . . Contact!</span>
That campire is 2nd Cohort style, long low rocks warmed by the embers to prevent spark brought fires, but the smiling gaggle of twitchy people around it is not the 2nd Cohort.
A single little cloud passes the sun, high, and there is a brief momentary lapse of shadow. . .
