Very early in the morning, before the rising sun's yet had its chance to burn off the dew, before anyone else arrives to assist in setting up the range—before Cade himself has had a chance to get himself fully situated—three men move past a doorway leading out of the training area. Nothing unusual, that. There are men all over the Gallows, moving about at all hours. Women, too. But none of those mentioned have a voice quite like this one:

"Oi, Harimann."

There in the doorway, leaning into the opening, gripped about the shoulders and arms by two bored-looking Inquisition guards, is... a ghost! Well, no, but he's certainly pale enough for the part, and against this pallor his dark hair and his strange eyes look all the more dark and strange. He's wearing Inquisition-standard prison togs and his wrists are shackled together at his waist.

"Lookin' sharp," says this apparition from days gone by, before one of the men by his side grumbles, that'll do, and the pair of them usher him out of sight and on their way.