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. Caramon
smiled back, feeling better. Maybe this weird place had
opened his son's eyes.
As the four approached the semicircle of chairs where
Justarius and Dalamar sat, Caramon kept a sharp eye on
them. Seeing that his boys were well and acting as they
were supposed to act (his oldest two tended to be a bit
boisterous on occasion), the big man finally relaxed and
studied the fourth figure, the one who had spoken to
Justarius about faith.
He was an unusual sight. Caramon couldn't remember
having seen anything stranger and he'd traveled most of the
continent of Ansalon. He was from Northern Ergoth, that
much Caramon could tell by the black skin-the mark of
that sea-faring race. He was dressed like a sailor, too, except
for the pouches on his belt and the white sash around his
waist. His voice was the voice of one accustomed to
shouting com mands over the crashing of waves and the roaring
of the wind. So strong was this impression that Caramon glanced
around somewhat uncertainly. He wouldn't have been the least
surprised to see a ship under full sail materialize behind him.
"Caramon Majere, I take it," the man said, coming over to
Caramon, who rose awkwardly to his feet. Gripping Caramon's
hand with a firmness that made the warrior open his eyes wide, the
man grinned and introduced himself. "Dunbar Mastersmate of
Northern Ergoth, Head of the Order of White Robes."
Caramon gaped
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