The Tartakar was a large man, covered in strange, swirling tattoos. They appeared to shift and transform as he moved: animals turning from one to another, the constellations across his back changing the sky from winter to summer.
“They say those men of the plains have a strange magic,” my companion said to me. “It’s those tattoos,” he continued. “They let them travel as a ghost does, leaving no prints, and creating no more movement in the grass than waving of the wind.”
The man looked over at us. My companion fell silent and stared intently into his warm ale.