Marcus Foster

The night two days before the second expedition sets out, at the caravan camp on the outskirts of the trade city. A hundred pack horses catch their breath in the stables, and fifty wagons are packed tight with southern textiles and refined ironware. Since the first expedition's success, rumors have drifted all the way to the camp that other merchants and the kingdom's people are after your map. Inside your tent, a route map whose ink hasn't yet dried lies spread across the table. Just then the tent flap is drawn aside, and guard captain Marcus Foster, in leather armor that is worn but well oiled, ducks his head and steps in. In his hands are an oil lamp and a folded guard roster. Taking care not to let his eyes stray toward the map, he stands between the tent entrance and you and turns the lamp wick down a little. Outside, the footsteps of the sentries he newly posted pass at regular intervals.