Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
--The Hosting of the Sidhe, W.B. Yeats

One of the riders speaks to his companions in a strange foreign tongue, and receives some short replies. His horse steps forward a pace; it moves without sound, without hoofbeat, not even a snort or a whinny. The rider dismounts with a fluid motion and looks evenly at each person there briefly, before speaking in a lightly accented voice, “Who among you claims leadership of this group?”

Moreth snorts, "Leadership? Oh, uuh.... I wouldn't have a clue.. The red-head?"

He turns and looks over to her, "That about right? We'd all be dead if not for you, right?"

Tamsin turns to watch, making her way back over to Eva, whose saddle she unbuckles. She also unties the reins from her wolf-mount's earrings.

Eva licks her wound and snorts, smelling the fresh horses. She perks her head up when the man speaks, and licks her muzzle, pointing both ears his way.

Tamsin doesn't answer. She is neither the leader or the fool by any stretch of the imagination. But she knows that the other rider isn't either.

Estonja stands up slowly, brushes the dirt from her ear, glancing casually over to her horses as she does so. Without appearing overly concerned, she judges the distance carefully. On horseback, she'll wipe the grass with this lot. On foot...

Traveller will come with a whistle. She can meet him halfway and have an arrow in the air in five heartbeats. Still not quite enough. She'll need a distraction.

Moreth continues to examine the strangers, marbles in one hand.

"What do you want?" He demands, rather than asks. "And no funny buisness either, just tell me what you want"

Shas walks up to get a better look at the newcome horsemen.
Leader?
His hand twitches slighly, a sign that he's nervous, having no idea where the horsemen came from, combined with the fact that he was suddenly thrown from a burning city to a grassy plain.

Crake was just refilling his canteen with water and pausing to read his book when the men came around. When the man asks his question Crake replies,
"Leader, I don't think we have one. I think we just stayed together because of either coincidence or need to survive. Erm, who are you and did we do anything wrong?"

The man turns to his companions, and says something disparagingly in their tongue. From the tone of his voice, it sounds like he's commenting on their lack of a leader, and the disorganization which must be a byproduct of that. His actual words translate roughly to "a chimera without a body", which apparently is an appropriate analogy, for his companions laugh, and banter back with him.

He says something else, grins, and turns back to face the group. He says, in a slightly annoyed tone, "You altered the landscape. A river is here where no river was before. It disturbed our hunt. Our quarry is escaped, by way of the river, and the scent is gone."

"Who are you, then, you people without a leader, and what business do you have in this place?"

Estonja stands before the hunter leader, legs apart, hand resting on the hilt of her sword. "I am Estonja, wife of Ong Khan, leader of Ger People and ruler of steppe. My business is my own. If there is one of rank among you, we speak," she says, chin high, daring any to challenge her claim.

"As for your hunt, I am not impressed. Have you no literates? Can none of you read tales written in ground? Hmph."

"What is it you hunt, that eludes you by crossing water?"

"I am Herne, Earl of Weeping-Grove," says the man, who looks at Estonja wryly. "I hope that satisfies you, Estonja, wife of Ong Khan, leader of Ger People and ruler of steppe."

He looks with boredom at the grassy earth on either side of him. "What would be the fun in reading the ground? Our quarry leaves his tracks everywhere. Much more invigorating to hunt him by scent, and scent alone."

"As for our quarry, he is a mere human, and quite frankly, he is fast outliving his usefulness. I suspect this will be the last hunt for him."

Crake has no idea what the man said but guessing by his body language and voice he had a lot of contempt in it. I snaps back,

"You are hunting another man for sport? Hell how do you lose the trial of a man you idjits? I mean people usually don't know nothing about nature so they leave all sorts of little signs all over the place. That and most people are quite adept at leaving thier scent. Oh course this begs the question of how can you track him by scent in the first place? I see no dogs amoung you."

RTC's still 'zoning' near the stream.

TLP begins to stand, changes his mind halfway up, and falls back to his sitting position.

Herne looks coldly at Crake. "You reek of somaticism yourself. On this hunt we go by scent, and scent only. Your very presence here is an inconvenience, what with your foreign smells, and your ill-placed river." He narrows his brows. "I suggest you correct your tone, for I do not care much for it." He turns away, no longer interested in Crake, letting his glance fall over the others there.

"My, you do have a rag-tag assembly here, don't you?" he comments. His eyes fall over the prone body of Dan, and his brow furrows. Looking at his companions, he says something questioningly in his tongue. One of the riders responds in turn; this is followed by a brief discussion of some sort.

Dissatisfied with the other somatic's response Crake pulls out the orb Raziel gave him and tries to get it to work. In a half believing voice he shakes the orb and it,
"Oh enchaneted orb, bring me a box 'o bullets and a jar of peanut butter."
(If he gets the peanut butter he opens it and lets the very noticable smell flood the area.)