This will likely be the new opening.
Joe Grushnark-Baxter never understood why the elf slaver had shot his horse. It didn’t seem like the sensible thing to do. He could understand somebody shooting him, and trying to capture his mount. Horses were worth something. But doing it the other way just didn’t make much sense.
And he hadn’t been doing anything, either. It was a two-day ride north from Port Barclay to Newfort, which suited Joe just fine; he wasn’t in a hurry, and he figured people were watching the trains. An orc on a horse wasn’t going to raise any eyebrows, although Joe’s city accent might. But he wasn’t there to talk. Just ride.
Running across the elves and their slave-cart was just bad luck. He might have been tempted to just keep going, noblesse oblige be damned, except that one of the elves was on her own horse. She whooped in that way the wilder ones still had, and spurred her mount to intercept.