The riverbank seethed with tension as a group of men, their faces contorted with anger and impatience, milled about.
Some paced back and forth, while others sat on rocks or fallen logs, their eyes constantly darting to every possible path they could see.
"Where the hell is Gustavo?" growled a burly man with a thick beard. "He's twenty minutes late already!"
Another man, thin and wiry, spat on the ground. "Maybe this whole thing is just a setup. I knew Xylar shouldn't have trusted that snake."
"If he doesn't show up in the next five minutes, I'm out of here," declared a third, his hand resting nervously on the hilt of his knife.
A fourth man, his face red with anger, kicked at a pile of pebbles. "Maybe Gustavo ratted us out, and they're just waiting to ambush us."
As the complaints and threats continued to fly, one man, Mordred, remained apart from the others. He sat silently on a large rock, seemingly oblivious to the commotion around him.
