You move forward warily. When you reach the man, you lean down and shake him, to no avail, before thrusting your boot beneath his shoulder and, with a push, rolling him onto his back.
His throat has been cut, and his face is bloodless and pale. The man is slight, with a thin, weaselly face. He wears a black fur jerkin over ragged and dull-colored clothing, and his hair is matted with the mud in which he lies. You turn and signal for the rest of the patrol to join you.
"This…this is the outfit of the Tribe of the Black Wolf," says Kral as he comes to stand alongside you. "Why would a single one of their people be here? And why"—he gestures to the dull red line across the man's neck—"would he have been killed in such a way?"
Before you can answer, there is a scream from your left. A man, ax in hand, bursts out of the bushes beside the path and hurls himself at one of your warriors, followed seconds later by a number of similar figures, all wearing the same black-furred jerkin as the man at your feet.