Wanderer Merchant lifted his hand and held it steady above his crown, sliding his fingers into his hair. He plucked a single long, jet-black strand; as it left his grasp, a faint gleam rippled through the air, and he let it fall.
While it drifted, the strand swelled as if inhaling an unseen breath, curling and lengthening; the black sheen thickened into gray fur, the ends whitening into a bristling beard. A heartbeat later, a goatman stood where it landed, Caprion's exact likeness—gray-furred, white-bearded—who sank to his knees before the Merchant and bowed his head.
"This hill recognizes the Mountain." Caprion's voice carried the weight of solemn respect.
"Caprion, you already know what I want." The Merchant clasped his hands behind his back, gaze steady, breath even.
Without raising his head, only the narrow glint of Caprion's yellow eyes moved. "Shall I kill?"
