Here begins the account of Warpath.
At long last, our journey begins; though the road the caravan takes is the road I traveled to Restov. I look to distance myself from my homeland, not return to it. I will ride a bit further and if course does not change, I will lose myself in the south.
The ride is not quiet. A deaf ogre could make us a mile away. There is a vulgar fellow, garbed in dyed cloth and coat with a feathered hat, calling himself Darkie. His breathe stinks of ale and he is loose of tongue. He has made me known as to where he travels. He talks much, but he says little. What troubles me is his companion. She is attractive, and dresses much like the tribes, but her tongue stays sealed behind her lips. The loud and dark one calls her Iolana and the she whispers to a cat.
My past is unclean and I hold my judgment of these two until time shows the path clear.