The grey figure sauntered casually enough through the door of the inn, but his pace increased considerably as soon as it was shut. Perched on the sign of the nearby smithy, a horned owl pivoted its head 180 degrees in pure owl fashion. Two obsidian spheres observed the grey figure -which had appeared back into the street -with significant interest. Its perfect night vision made out the character's worried eyes and flustered steps. The owl half closed its eyes and pulled back its head to dull the shrill whistle of a master calling his steed. Mounting his horse quickly, the grey figure lead it with remarkable stealth along the pebbled path. Once they were clear of the town gate however, the black horse leapt forward as if its tail was on fire and galloped off on a muddy road at a ferocious pace. The owl cocked its head curiously and watched horse and rider disappear into the late night, then ruffled its feathers and took off into a nearby forest.
In a clearing some kilometres away, four large men sat around a small fire, silently dining. On today's menu was some stale bread and hard moldy cheese, washed down with a rationed mug of cheap beer. Sun, snow, wind and rain were entirely unkind on their grim, grimy weather-beaten faces, now illuminated unevenly by their fickle, flickering campfire. Their leader wore a black battered breastplate with notched shoulder guards. His leggings were well worn at the knee area and ended in steel boots with cruelly sharp spurs. On his hands were gauntlets backed with sharp, curved steel spikes. Beside him lay his huge fearsome helmet, its perfectly smooth exterior only interrupted by two horns and the holes for his eyes. The men had rather limited conversation, mostly revolving around slight variations of "pass the salt". They sat, waiting, each sipping from his mug and thinking of battles, riding and new techniques they were going to employ in the next melee. One of them produced periodic scraping sounds with his knife, cutting new shafts for crossbow bolts. His shifty eyes made him seem the thieving sort, and rightly so, for he was quite a weasel. Filk'd his name was. His fingers demonstrated remarkable dextrosity, the carving knife flashing again and again, reflecting the campfire, and shavings of wood fell between his fingers unhindered. The other two were usual tough, gritty soldier types, and were probably brought along to give the task force some "body". In other words, to soak up arrows and blows. They busied themselves with looking bored and maintaining their equipment. Hours dragged by and a substantial quiver of bolts had accumulated beside the thin fellow. Then suddenly, the silent flutter of stealthy wings. The four men neither saw nor heard the horned owl until it landed on their leader's shoulder momentarily, then took off again. The large man got up and loosened his joints, prompting his team to do the same. They got their gear on and mounted their horses with military speed and precision. With an evil grin behind his steel mask, the leader addressed his men.
"For two weeks we have hunted this spy, now his scent is in our nostrils. Let the chase begin!"
With that, he set off in hot pursuit of the owl, his men trailing.