Quick Quincey the Dishonored rode his horse up the mountain trail. Recent rain had soaked the worn path and each step from his mount squished wetly with mud. His horse, Abner, was one of the few things he had been allowed to keep when the King had stripped him of rank, title, and asset. He had no hopes or ambitions and simply spent his time serving as best he could. Quincey knew that he was waiting on a slow, boring, and completely without glory death.

Silver shafts of moonlight slanted down from the canopy of trees above the trail, lighting the way with strangely contending images. Pitch black sliced into sections by pale beams of light which revealed too little. The caravan he escorted winded up the muddy trail and Quincey realized what had woken him from his slumber on the saddle. Not a chirping insect, rustling creature, or hooting owl broke the silence of the forest.

Quincey, knowing that silence in the woods was a sign of something predatory roaming in the dark, drew his blade from the sheath.