Having found nothing of use amongst the various stalls and tents at the Festival of Swords, Luther left the arena and set out into the arid badlands beyond.
He trudged north along the dusty road, leather boots and armour creaking with every movement. As the sun began to set, the wind eased off and the air shimmered less. He saw a campfire ahead next to some large cacti near the roadside, and the shadows of three men lounging by the flames.
Luther continued his steady pace until he drew level with the trio.
“I love the clink of gold; it’s the sound of opportunity, the intrinsic opportunity to make us all equal, and I just know that you’ll be an egalitarian, friend” said one of the men, face ravaged with the boils of scrofula, as he rose to his feet and drew a bilbo from its scabbard.
Luther sighed, tensed.