The group gathers around the injured horse when they hear someone approaching for the other side of the copse.
Whoever it is, they aren't being subtle. In fact, they're singing in a broad lower-class Meglean accent. The singer's hitting most of the right notes, but with far more enthusiasm than any real musical training.
Bonnie lass, won't ye lie near me
I'll gar all your ribbons reel
in the morning ere I leave ye
She takes the trooper by the hand..."
The song abruptly ends as an armed and armoured man, in a dark and dusty cloak, rounds a tree. He's already switching to a greeting in Arabic.
"Peace be upon you, may I approach the..." the newcomer trails off as his eyes pass over the motley group gathered around the fallen horse.
From a goblin with one arm in a sling, to a dwarf in battered armour, and on to a midget..no, beardless dwarf and a beggar boy holding a bloody knife.
Then he quickly glances over the make-shift bundle of weapons, and the quietly moaning Wazifi lying in the undergrowth with a leg at an uncomfortably jaunty angle.
"And of course you're bloody bandits," he sighs in Anglish.
He continues without a pause, as he gestures 'hold up' and calmly walks around the camp-site maintaining a good distance from the group.
"Look, it's been a long walk since the last lot. Could you at least give me a moment off my feet before you try and kill me?"
And with that he sits on a fallen log, his right-hand resting on his knee, his left on his belt. He looks at the others expectantly, over the camp fire.