The Wandering Hill

The king was very correct in thinking Menshin’s determination. Promptly as the sun rose along the horizon, Menshin was dressed and prepared to lead his small batch of men to the most western part of Mx’tiador’ol in search for this rare creature.

The night before, Torick gathered together three men, uncouth and unaware of the procedure of chivalry, which gnawed on Menshin’s nerves. The first man was a tall, buff scoundrel who wore only a loose fitting, leather vest and a poor excuse for a pair of riding pants Menshin had ever seen. His head glared in the sunlight of the early morning not only from the lack of hair, but also from the grease condensed from poor eating habits and not bathing. Drasooth, named after a southern pond of Mx’tiador’ol, had a slack jaw and would drool from time to time if not reminded.

The second man was more polite, but cowardly so. He was shorter than Menshin and much weaker; he probably would have fit more appropriately with the king’s servants than with potential battle men. Conversely to Drasooth, Asado had a dirty mop of dark, brown hair that covered his entire top. Still slightly too young to grow a full beard, Asado had a fine moustache and goatee that Menshin imagined could blow off his face with a mere strike of the wind.

Thirdly, with a surprise was Jurrah, the single man who discovered him on the open field. “I thought your job was in servitude?” Menshin greeted Jurrah.

“It is, but this job was open to all applicable, I have been looking to remove myself from Mx’tiador’ol for some time now.”

“Is that so?” Menshin equivocated, pondering what Jurrah might have meant by that comment. “Furthermore, glad to see you in our happy, well, minor group.”