A masked stranger approaches, a tattered grey cloak swishing behind him. The hilt of a sword protrudes over his right shoulder, through a flap in the worn cloak. As he enters through the wrought iron southern gates, a cool wind swirls in, stirring the plants just slightly. The faint scent reminds those who care to pay attention of autumn. He steps forward, and says quietly, "I search for a worthy foe to face in honorable combat." Strangely, his words can be heard from quite far away.