From high atop a hilltop, a grizzled man in a brown cloak watched the road below. Pickings had been slim, recently -- merchant caravans were either heavily guarded or had nothing worth stealing, and few travelers came along the road alone these days.
He smirked. Maybe because of all those rumors about bandits robbing people blind and slitting their throats? Being a bandit was a little like being a dog begging for scraps -- you had to know when to move on before you got a boot to the flank.
Just then, he spotted something. Two travelers, alone? It was too good to be true. One of them was a rosy-cheeked, cornfed blonde, so short she would have been pixiesh if not for her impressive curves, riding along on a dappled pony without a care in the world. The other --
Ah. So it was too good to be true then. The other was a massive ogre warmaiden, bulging with muscle, steely eyes glinting from under shaggy black bangs. Definitely not the sort of person you wanted to mess with.
Still, he had almost fifteen men and women sitting around doing nothing and growing increasingly restless, and restless bandits spelled bad news for a bandit leader. And they did have the element of surprise.
He whistled, too-wheet, too-wheet, the song of the finchhawk. A signal.
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