Jeric Targonor stalked through the city in a dreadful silence. He moved quickly, and I struggled to keep up. An icy rage emanated heavily from him, wilting away those who stood in his path. Though the hood of his heavy, dark cloak concealed his face, many in the streets still recognized their revered prince. It was hard not to. His brown, shoulder-length hair spilled out from the front of his hood over his finely etched pauldrons, and onto his ornate mail breastplate. A wicked looking axe hung from his belt among a host of small pouches and knives. He clenched his plate-clad fists tightly as he marched deeper into the city.