The crowd parted from the back to the front, much like a zipper. A tall good looking man walked through. handsome and steely eyed, but his scent made young children cry. He called his odor "La-tak-ee-ya", an old Indian name, but everyone suspected he pronounced it wrong, although none would say it to his face.
"I am Grish", he stated quietly. "Grish Grabow"
The Outrider felt a tremble run up his spine, and he clenched his pipe nervously, spilling ashes and crumbs of ditchweed. The Outrider noted the crossed bandoliers of once common, but now rare "stingers", whose purpose was unknown, but littered many an abandoned workroom floor. Grish, with lightning speed, whipped out a bowled tube of his own, one stamped with the mysterious "Spade" and quietly asked "how much cake do you have, stranger?"