A tall, broad-shouldered man came out of Sankesh’s tent, which hadn’t been touched by the recent clash between their two auras. Six and a half feet tall, he was clad in chainmail armor lined with the furs of animals Hadjar didn’t recognize.
Shading his eyes from the sun, he swung his long saber slightly. In his left hand, he held a round wooden shield with an iron centre. Despite their apparent simplicity, these were all artifacts at the Earth level, worse than Mountain Wind and Sankesh’s halberd, but still good weapons.
Olgerd had broad, ugly scars across his chest. On his fair skin, the red and pink streaks were repulsive and eerie.
His rugged face, also scarred and wrinkled, was covered in thick golden hair. It wasn’t blond, like people from Lidus had, but rather the color of rye.
