The response was prompt. Although he did not admit to it, Jefferson appreciated the speed; not only did it reflect well on the stranger and his pack, but the cyclops hated to waste time standing numb in the cold. The wolf that approached smiled and appeared friendly: a much different way than Jefferson in his border greetings. The cyclops did not smile, did not force friendliness. He was nothing but blunt, to-the-point. A businessman.
"Cercatori D'Arte," the cyclops repeated, his gaze breezing over the territory from whence Shawchert had hastened. Jefferson brutally butchered the name; he repeated it once or twice more with little difference, then left it at that. After a pause, the gimp rolled his shoulders and turned his one-eyed gaze to the leader once more. "Jefferson. I run Phoenix Valley; east of here, a straight shot."
The idiot scratched at a tattered ear leisurely. "I heard something about foundations being laid here. Phoenix Valley is harmless, regardless what I look like. What are you bunch all about?" His eye fixed upon the Cercatori leader, studying him in silence.
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