A lone man sit next to a small fire , his dark fur-edged cape wrapped aorund himself and a hood covering his head from the sharp early morning wind. His face was to the wind and he observed the movements of the natural movement of air constantly, moving around the fire if the wind changed direction so his back stayed blowed upon. There was a horse lying near the fire with much of the man's equipment there. He had just actually left a town a few rolls of a hill back down the road and had camped next to a forest called the Losarion. A beautiful name for a chaotic place. The villagers hate it but are too afraid to cut it down, the travellers get chills every time they go by. Those who have gone in have come out as a totally different man. Those who have not changed do not speak of their travels inside the forest. But this man was different. His eyes gleamed in the fire as he watched into the burning wood coldly, his weapons were on the other side of the fire and he didn't even seem to notice if a wild dog walked by and growled at the hunched figure. Nothing seemed to matter to him even if he was next to one of the feared forests of the continent.
The man stood up slowly and yawned like he had just woken up, rubbed his eyes and removed the hood. After getting his weapons back on his belt and back, he took a shovel and turned the ground around the fire and buried the campfire completely. The man removed the cape and hood, throwing them on the horse while getting a cloth and hoisting up the quipment and bags ontop of it and the horse. He wore a simple vlothing with some leather armor and cuffs for protection. The old coat of arms of the kingom was on his shirt, as a new coat of arms was taken when the royal family last changed a thousand years ago.