The path north takes you through gently rolling hills, which are mercifully free of other encounters. After some time, you ride over the crest of a low hill and see that, a little way off, the road you follow crosses a bridge over a small river, around which is centered a village. Heartened by the discovery of some kind of civilization for the first time on your journey, you signal for the caravan to advance.
As you near the bridge, a number of men and women appear on the other side, clad in a motley assortment of boiled leather and animal hides, wielding farming implements and the odd beaten sword.
"Easy now, they're not Garulf's men," says a stout, middle-aged man, stepping forward onto the bridge. The militia behind him lower their weapons and stand nervously as their leader turns to greet you. "Greetings, stranger," he says. "We were expecting someone else—the lackeys of the bandit Garulf. What would a caravan from the steppe be doing heading through Bannerbridge?"