“I’m Andrev.” He shook Rastaban’s proffered hand. The Wanderers came to the Market every year to perform - music, acrobatics, sleight-of-hand - and though they were well-loved by the children, they were scorned by the adults. After a while, Andrev understood why, but that had never stopped him liking them.
Rastaban’s smile brightened. “Just the man we’re looking for - your chief Savva said you’re an excellent hunter.”
The Wanderers lived off the work of others, as it were, and every year they commissioned hunters from the tribes. Usually it was something of an honor to hunt for them. Usually.
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