Adding to Ernst’s relative lack of motivation was his growing sense of being out of place. A dwarf, noble girl, and shady-looking character with red irises and clad in reaching garments were fine enough for him, but the addition of a woman with skin as dark as midnight and hair like the chilly snowflakes at the onset of winter -- and who also lacked an arm, mind you -- as well as yet another woman, but one who bore her midriff in a display of a great lack of shame, made him think that, perhaps, he was biting out more than he could chew.

For these strange characters seemed to be warriors elite, as he deduced simply from their looks. Veteran mercenaries who sure as hell didn’t care if they showed their navel in public, whereas he was but a mere woodsman in an armsman's clothing. The difference in equipment was also stark: sure, he may have had bodkin arrows and an arming sword, but a pair of decorated hilts betrayed master-crafted blades on Ehluria, and it was impossible not to notice the winking of reflected light off the small bits of exposed steel from Katelia’s person: an arsenal of daggers. The noble-looking girl, Osla, also sported plate-and-mail, and she either stole it or bought it at no small price.