A day or two down the road to the Greyfax estate, as the Crimson Calling has just finished setting up camp and is starting their evening chores, a lone man approaches leading a horse.

The man is wearing a heavy winter cloak, and a simple undyed tabard. Under the cloak and tabard, the observant make out dark-red, almost black chain mail and the hilt of odd shaped, dark-handled sword. It reminds those that remember of the blade Ethelred called “Bushwacker,” but longer.

The man raises his arms confidently in the universal gesture of peace,

“Hail, I am Rask Felmar, of Thater that Was. You must be the Crimson Calling.” He calls out confidently.