His eyes, when visible, were vaguely green. He was not a big man, neither tall nor well muscled, but he gave the impression of being hard and fixed of purpose. He wore black, like all the Druids, cloaked and hooded, wrapped darker than the shadows he passed through.
Moving quite deliberately off the trail, he came toward the Borderman with slow, measured strides, head lowered slightly, eyes tilted up out of the shadow of his cowl. It did not help matters that the old man easily found him. But he could not spy out the old man on the clearest night and the broadest plain, even when he knew to look for him. He could tell you how far ahead of him they were and how fast they were traveling. He could read the movements of animals from their passage through tall grass. He saw things that others did not even know were there. How did the old man do it? The Borderman had spent almost the whole of his life in this country, kept alive by his wits and experience. It was unnerving and vaguely embarrassing, and the fact that it happened this way every time didn't make it any more palatable. The Borderman was watching for him, sitting well back within the concealing shadows of a spreading hardwood high on a hillside overlooking the whole of the Streleheim and the trails leading out of it, everything clearly visible in the light of a full moon for at least ten miles, and he still didn't see him. The old man just appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.
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