It was the kind of time when bards and poets would write grand sagas.  A time when heroes and gods were commonly mistaken for one another, a time of steel and leather, of mysticism and magic, of kings and empires.  It was a time many knew yet remains a mystery to this day.  It was filled with the odd and exciting; faerie spells and sprite conjurations, the breath of dragons and eye eyes of the basilisk.  It was a time before now but after then, a place both here and there.  A time where technology grew expansively; a place where a flat parcel of land was the ultimate pallet for any artist.  It boasted the birth of stars and the deaths of oceans, a shift of times and places so massive and expansive that it reworked the face of the world many times over.  Armies and citizens rose, fell, and rose again.  Life turned then as it does now.  It was a place comparable to holy Eden and yet at the same moment the deepest pit of Hell.  War, peace, commerce, travel, and honor.  A world from whence came legends fit for only the far-fetched and mad.  A world that was and is wholly and truly alive.  This world is known as the Realm.

                “Damned if it ain’t another highwayman,” Mortis grumbled under his breath.  He could see the outline of the man through the outcrop of rock up ahead.  Luckily it was granite—any softer or he’d have missed the faint Tracer.  His steed, the noble, bow-backed and bandy-legged horcrose, snorted hot vapors of indifference and continued to plod along, the blunted claws leaving divots in the soft dirt road.  Mortis sneered at the ridged neck.  
                “Right, boyo, and ye have nothing to fear from a cutthroat.  He could kill ME, you know.  Though he could also steal our cargo—a decidedly worse fate, eh?”  Mortis pondered for a second which would be worse, scratching at his stubbly chin with an overgrown fingernail.  His skin was rough and light blue, like all of the Mesric Clansmen.  Faint turquoise rings circled his dark red eyes, the skin creased from far too much squinting.  His clothes were lightweight and waterproof.  A rapier hung from his belt and a mini-crossbow from his thigh.  All in all he was roughly four and a half feet tall—enormous for a Mesric—and wiry to boot.  They neared the rock, and he sighed.
                “Right, Claco, you just a-keep on walkin’, ey?  There’s a good horcrose,” Mortis murmured as he slipped from the saddle.  Claco, as disinterested in his rider as he was by the highwayman, continued along complacently.  Mortis hopped, a light bound, and landed on top of the rocks.  Carefully he climbed down, on his hands and knees, sticking to the granite.  He paused when he could see the highwayman—a human one.  How very typical.  The man was dressed in leather, loose fitting and surely too worn to be of much protection.  Mortis sat on the vertical surface and sighed, drawing his mini crossbow and noisily fitting a bolt into it.  Naturally the bandit heard him and spun around, his sword flashing as it was drawn.  Mortis nodded, his sharpened teeth showing in a friendly grin.  The mini-crossbow was trained on the man.
                “Top o’ the day, laddie.  Now, I hope you weren’t intendin’ to rob me, cuz If you were then I’d have to hole yer pritty little skull, and that would be plain unpleasant.  Doncha agree?” he said, amiable and friendly.  The man relaxed slowly and sheathed his sword.
                “Hello to you too, my good Mesric.  As matter of fact I had no intent of robbery this fine day, but perhaps of finding a companion for the road,” he said, his green eyes serious and dull behind his raggedy, long red hair.  He was taller than Mortis by at least a foot—maybe two.  Mortis shrugged affably.
                “Well as luck would have it we could use a big, strong boyo such as yerself.  You any good at carryin’?” Mortis asked, lowering the bow.
                “Aye, and more than that if needed,” the man replied, nodding.  “They call me Duane, of Goriko.”
                “Duane of Goriko, aye?  Well, Duane.”  Mortis pushed away from the stone and landed on his feet.  “They call me Mortis, of the Great Northern Mesrics.  As it so happens, me an’ my mate Claco—OY!  CLACO!  Get your mangy hide over ‘ere, wouldjyer?  Damned horcrose.  Anyway, as I was saying.  Me an’ Claco were just heading in fer Wespire, few miles yonder, ter sell some loot.”
                “Loot, you say?  From where?” Duane asked as he rested his hand on the pommel of his sword.
                “From the ruins of that big ol’ castle, couple days travel east.  Firim or some such.”  Mortis shrugged.  “I don’t typically trouble myself with the specifics.  I just get in, get the stuff, and get out afore anything gets troubled.”
                “Indeed.  A sound plan.  Would you have me, then?”  Duane asked, shrugging beseechingly.  Mortis eyeballed him, sizing the human up critically.
                “Ah, very well then.  Can’t see through you, so you must be stout.  We head North,” Mortis said as he mounted Claco once more.  Duane nodded, and the newly formed pair set out.