The man—or so Knorron thought of himself, and was painfully self-conscious in doing all he could to make others think so as well—stood with his arms folded across his chest, the better to hide their unnatural length. Hands were tucked under the folds of his dun colored cloak, the better to hide nails that were more akin to claws. There was less he could do to disguise the fact that his skin marked him as something other than fully human with its frostburnt appearance, but he wore his hood pulled low across his face to cloak it as much as possible.

He watched, silently, as the scene unfolded on the hill. The ride had been difficult and he was splattered with horse-strewn mud kicked up on the trail, but it appeared the Jarl’s daughters were safe, so all was well. Now he watched, and waited, to see what new need Henrikson might have for him.