A mounted rider stands atop a tall hill a bright late summer morning. It is Epovarros, the horse man. He is dressed in colourful woven textiles and he has painted patterns in his face and on his naked arms. Around his neck is an open bronze ring, and there are thick bronze ringlets around his upper arms. On his side, a long iron sword hangs in its sheath, and a tall shield is fastened to his saddle, but on the other side, a lyre and a small bronze horn are suspended. The Sun rises higher in the sky. The horse snorts impatiently and scrapes the dry earth with his fore hoof. A layer of mist is hiding the lake and the lush leafy forest down in the valley. Epovarros lifts his gaze. He has a message for us.