“Good morning,” he said with more nervousness than excitement. He’d heard the wagon wheels coming down the road and had made his way through his front door. With a bag in each hand, he was carrying what amounted to nearly everything he owned. It didn’t matter if it was a request or a threat; he was aching with the prospect of leaving.

The two-horse wagon was driven by a single man, though the ranger was not dressed nearly as well as the messenger Grelda had described the day before. His clothes were almost entirely black; they were quality garments, but clearly made for utility as opposed to pageantry. He didn’t appear to be overly tall, and seemed to the painter to be of average build. The ranger didn’t reply from under his dark hood.

“What’s your name?” the painter asked.

In place of an answer, the ranger nodded, motioning for the painter to climb up to the seat. The wagon was fairly simple, but the horses were quite magnificent. They were as black as obsidian, with white accenting their eyes and feet. Each one stood a full head taller than Tolo, and would certainly outrun her. The painter tucked his few belongings--careful with the bag containing the masterpiece--into the bed of the wagon and obliged the ranger’s gesture. There was little hesitation from the painter, but he motioned to the ranger he needed a minute. He darted behind his house, untied Tolo, and led her across the yard to Grelda’s. Unsure when he might see her again, he gave her a loving pet on the nose and gently scratched her ears. With Tolo secure, he walked between the houses to the waiting ranger. Unsurprisingly, Grelda was in her doorway, taking in the second strange visitor in as many days.

“Grelda, I’ll be gone for a few days. Can you see to Tolo?” he asked as he was making his way to the wagon. In that moment, he wished he’d remembered the dragonleaf, but knew he could count on Grelda to take care of his equine companion. He didn’t linger long enough to give Grelda much say in the matter, and quickly climbed up onto the wagon. The ranger gave a tug of the reins and they were off.

This is going to drive her mad, the painter thought to himself in one of the few moments of levity he’d experienced in years.

I’ll regale her with stories of my trip when I return, he promised in a moment of fondness for Grelda.

After an hour on the road, the silence started to gnaw at him.

“So, where are we going?” he asked the ranger, who again offered no response. “Look, I don’t know if you’re aware, but I’m troubled. I can’t paint and I can’t go very far,” he confessed. “They seem to have gone to a lot of effort to come to me...” He stopped mid-sentence and swallowed hard.

They seem to have gone to a lot of effort to come to me... he repeated in his mind. Then it came together in a flash of clarity.

They want me precisely because I am troubled. They want a painter with nothing to lose... His mind raced now.

Do they want me to creep into a werewolf den to paint them in their natural habitat? Or maybe the spectres of the Omen Graves in Goshshkug? Or have sorcerers sit for portraits in the Temple of Dread?

But they must know I can’t leave…

The painter didn’t say anything for quite some time after that realisation. He quietly stared at the road ahead, trying to puzzle together the mysterious task before him. It was nearly sunfall, and he had spent most of the day quietly thinking.

He was off in his own thoughts when the ranger took the wagon off the road and brought it to a stop. Though he had lost track of time, the painter thought they must be about halfway to Tunum.

Damn it. I should have been paying more attention…

While the painter was working out their location, the ranger reached under the cover in the back of the wagon, pulled out an impressive bow, and slung a quiver over his head. The bow was black as night and gave off no shine whatsoever. He walked softly into the field of tall grass lining the road to the east. The field of light golden grass was moving ever so slightly in the late afternoon breeze. Without taking his attention off the field in front of him, the ranger pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and pulled the string back. The singular fluid motion was a sight to behold. His bow panned slowly to the right, and the ranger let loose the arrow.

A soft squeak came from out in the grass, but it wasn’t clear what the ranger had bagged. Just moments after the sound, the ranger had nocked, pulled, and let loose a second arrow, which was met with another squeak. Then the ranger lowered his bow, slung it over his head, and marched out into the grass. At roughly a hundred yards, he bent over and picked up his two trophies. As he walked back, the painter could make out two fully grown false hares. They roosted in fields and were nearly impossible to see during the day, let alone at a hundred yards.

Those shots were not made by an amateur.

The ranger motioned to the painter to make a camp while he went to clean their game for supper. An hour later, they were eating roasted false hare and sitting silently, the fire and the odd bone being spit out the only sounds. The way the ranger ate was unsettling; he didn’t seem to consider his food or enjoy it. After finishing their meal, the ranger stared into the waning flame for quite some time. Eventually he lay down, his back to the painter, and slept.