O'Cuire brought up the rear of their little party. He had not Duril's height, nor his breadth of shoulder, but was possessed of a slim, wiry build with a tenacious strength and agility that were more than adequate restitution for his slightness. Fair of complexion, his once-light hair and closely cropped beard and mustache had darkened with the passing of years, and grey streaks splashed both mane and jaw. His face too was lined with age, yet the wrinkles seemed to add something to his composure. Perhaps it lent a greater dignity to his features. He was outfitted all in black, from knee-high jack-boots to supple doeskin elbow-length gauntlets. His taste, a bit more refined than Longshanks's, allowed him the more civilized of comforts, such as a silken shirt and an ebony chamois jacket. His current weapon of propensity was a hand-and-a-half 'bastard' sword; wielded easily with one or both hands. Rumored to be the work of Wayland Smith, it hung at his hip from a plain leather baldric.
      Age-old friends were Longshanks and

 
 
Timeras. It seemed they had known each other for generations. Indeed, so close were they that they might have been kinsman, and considered each other so. The ranger had only but to ask the aid of his friend, with no queries in return. None were necessary. It mattered not the reasons, just the fact of the asking and of the peril that required his talents. Family was all that mattered.
      His mind once again in the passageway, Longshanks listened intently for a moment. He cast his gaze at his old friend, who caught it and read it with an ease that would have taken other men years to procure. "One way or the other, what does it matter?" said O'Cuire, "Up or down should we be ponderin' on." Called the Rogue by his friends (and no few female acquaintances), Timeras then shrugged his shoulders and pointed at the passageway to the right.

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