"Blackthorn," a broad-shouldered man who gave off a seasoned warrior's presence muttered while gazing at the horizon where dense black clouds gathered with the occasional flash of white followed by roaring thunder that echoed across the barren lands.
A campfire sat in the middle with a group surrounding it, the embers dimly illuminating the people's faces. A man clearly past the prime of his life sat in full plate armour; only his aged face was on display for all to see. He turned to face his employer with a frown.
"Marquess Cunningdal, if you don't mind the question… why exactly are we heading to Blackthorn? Last I heard, it's a village filled with peasants and nothing much else." Disdain practically dripped from every word, clearly showing his disapproval of having to visit such a backwater place.
A young woman with strikingly similar features to the marquess seemed to perk up at the question; a cold bowl of half-eaten murky mushroom soup sat on her lap.
