A dashing warrior dressed in steel, silks and gold at the head of your mercenary

Prince Hazim, in rebellion against his sovereign, had promised you your weight in gold when he hired you. There was the fleeting vision in your mind of flaming caissons pouring out heaps of gold... There were the prince's honeyed words, the agreement sealed under his tent as the peat fires burned in the night.

Prince Hazim is now but a corpse, rotting in the midst of others under a pile of dead horses... The gods of victory have turned away from you, your army has been cut to pieces, your mercenaries, recruited and trained with great difficulty for so long, have bitten the dust.

Dusty, bloody, you fled south, further and further south, to these mysterious and unknown lands. At night, you could see the glow of your pursuers' fires. Your victor, Zarallo, was determined to pursue you all the way to Hell to make you pay for the **** of his younger brother, whose head you cut off in the fury of battle.

To flee, again and again... For two days, it seems you have finally managed to loose them. But here you are lost in these steppes with the perfume of warm earth, salt and dust. Since the **** of your horse, you progress with obstinacy, measuring the little water and food that you have left. This morning, you noticed that the vegetation was more present, the earth less arid and the trembling green punctuation of the horizon vibrating in the heat mists confirmed you in your idea: the savannah is not far.

The savannah... Water, game, the villages of the black peoples... You should be able to find asylum there, rest, cool shade...

As the sun slowly rises in the chalk sky, you climb a rocky peak to try to find your bearings and discover something that exceeds all your expectations...