Silvertip Mountain Through the big top tent up high

The man stood tall; taller than most. Catamaran was cautious in his approach, answering the stranger's posturing with casually deferential body language of his own. As he drew nearer, smaller details began to emerge. The blue blaze of his eyes, the littering of scars across his body. Some on his ankle seemed to match the ones that Catamaran bore on his own — but this was of little importance to him. They all carried scars.

Despite this deference, the bounty hunter felt no compunction against disregarding the gentle warning. He did not smell any borders so strongly that he felt he ought to move further away. The man only meant to put him in his place; Catamaran was past resenting such things, accustomed to being treated with wariness and suspicion by other men.

He made no real effort to put the other man at ease. Such things had gone to waste in the past, and he preferred to let his actions speak for themselves.

"One man's trouble is another's work," the bounty hunter replied, though without any of the charm that might've made it a clever riposte. The flatness of his voice worked against him. "Are these troubled lands?" he asked, though there was nothing he sensed in the stranger that suggested he had many worries at all.

Still. Catamaran had nothing more pressing to see to.