"Where can I find them?"
Faqir pocketed the coin with a smile.
"Follow the stench of self-righteousness."
He jabbed a thumb north, directly towards a yellow banner.
"Nasir Al-Sultan's base—big stronghold, past the Faraja and Goldsmiths. Can't miss it."
Malik nodded.
"Anything I need to know?"
Faqir snorted, scratching his chin.
"Eh. They don't torch villages for giggles like Ayan's dogs. But don't expect hugs and campfire songs. They got rules. Lots of rules."
Malik shrugged.
"Rules beat starvation."
"Oh, and Malik?"
Faqir's rotten teeth glinted.
"Go get some clothes."
"...Ah."
He seemed to have forgotten that he was currently half-naked.
...
A tall, lean man strolled forward, his pale face, his gold eyes glowing.
His hair? Mostly neat—except for the long rat tail that draped over his shoulder.
He rocked a long white robe, all fancy patterns with a slick orange trim, thrown over loose white pants that let him move easy.
