Balfour watched with curiosity as the man entered along a street into the ghost town. Deep-set gray eyes watched every movement, every subtle nuance that the man portrayed with his body. This Semner, by his appearance a warrior, perhaps a skilled on, perhaps not, either way he had come to the town by the Wode and that showed Balfour the man was earnest in his desire to fight.
Slipping the dark hooded cloak from his form, the dull and battered plate armor now exposed as the crumpled cloth impacted dully on the dusty street. A dust devil rose swiftly and danced hauntingly before Balfour then simply fell apart, collapsing back to the earth from whence it came. Taking a swift, sure step from the gloom, Balfour emerged from the shadows, as the plate armor susurrated against the padding underneath.
A hot wind cascaded through the town, a hellish pummeling of the elements to remind both warriors that they were always at the mercy of a far greater force than themselves. Eyeing the hand and half sword that hung from the man’s hip, Balfour bowed slightly as he stepped out to face the man. The wooden and metal braced heater hung on his left arm, a long, heavy headed mace dangled from the frog and belt that wrapped around his hips.
The sweat began to drip down his back and along his neck, the heat would ensure this fight ended quickly least both men pass out from heat exhaustion, or unluckily should one pass out the other would be the victor by default to do as they will.
Narrowing those gray eyes a moment as Semner spoke, Balfour tried to place the dialect, but he could not, perhaps after this he would seek those lands. Lowering his head a fraction, his baritone voice echoed throughout the town, “Well met. “