A lone rider travelled through one of the many forests that covered the southeast regions of Salvar, the helmetless individual gazing at the many trees that inhabited the area as he tried his best to remember what types they were. Karl was never the most intelligent, but he liked to think he had a mild knowledge of botany given that he was still a farmer.
The towering, narrow tree in front of him had to be pine, right? He nodded quietly to himself and ran a hand through the mane of his loyal steed, Geoffrey, who sighed in content as he continued walking along the pathless terrain.
A distant bellow ripped him from his cerebration, Karl scrambling to slide the bucket helmet back onto his chainmail coif, his heart beginning to pulsate louder. Now fully alert, he gave Geoffrey a gentle squeeze with his legs and spurred his mount into a canter towards the direction of the scream, his armoured hands grasping the reins tightly.
Even though the narrow slits granted him a limited view of his surroundings, he could see that they were riding up to a decent-sized clearing, prompting him to pull back on the reins and cause his horse to slow down to a trot. Geoffrey stopped near the edge of the clearing when he pulled on the reigns again, the man-at-arms removing his feet from the stirrups and swinging his right leg up and over the haunches, so that gravity could do the rest and allow him to slide down to the ground.
Walking forward, he saw the source of the earlier disturbance in the form of a gaggle of lightly-armoured orcs surrounding a small grove of oak trees, the miscreants waving their poorly-made weapons around to intimidate something hiding up among the branches. Roving groups of orcs were common in the northern reaches where the clans lived, but he had never heard of them appearing near the border with Raiaera. He angled his head upward to search the branches, almost doing a double-take when he laid his eyes upon an extraordinarily beautiful high elf.
His code of chivalry made it so that he knew exactly what he had to do at that moment, the man turning to retrieve an object covered with cloth from his horse, unwrapping it to reveal an ornate iron warhammer which he gripped securely in both hands. He strode forth into the clearing, his chausses clanking with every movement. "Meine Freunde! That is not the proper way to treat a lady!" He shouted, his accented voice booming across the glade and causing the rabble to turn and snarl.
They began to trudge towards him, their swords and cleavers rapping against tree-bark shields in an attempt to frighten him. But he was a Salvarian knight, and an innocent traveller required assistance; at any rate, he wasn't going anywhere. He tightened his grip on the warhammer and charged forth, sprinting at the group with terrifying swiftness, a baleful roar escaping from his bucket helmet as he raised his arms and prepared to strike.
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