Petr knew this man. He knew his face, that half-hidden, half blackened face. This was the man he had been searching for, the man surely responsible for the many stray horses upon his front garden, the man deemed the enemy of his enemy, the man they called both murderer and hero, a man who's very identity and existence would forever be questioned for as long as the people continued to speak words of him. And that man now sat upon Petr Mortimus armchair, peering at the old man with eyes like fire and knives, with the presence of a king of old, a giant of myth. Strainsier.

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