Bosfyrd was incongruously green and lush, and the leaves were a lovely shade of spring green on the trees, old oaks that shot up between the old houses with their thatched roof. It was a town whose meadows provided grazing for animals tended to by the herders and some fishing on the nearby Fool's Lake, so named for a long-ago battle that replaced the old name, which no one remembered. 

Every bit the opposite of the harsh and waterless Tazhad, it was equally home to Masef, though it hardly felt welcoming. He rode with his hood up and his weaponry concealed, and it was a good call -- his preliminary scouting, done in the early hours of pre-dawn on foot, revealed a small garrison in town, operating as if they were used to a pattern, so they'd been there for a time. Brand's skills came in handy; it was the rare local that could spot one of Brand's Brood, as they'd been called growing up, even when they were in training. With five years experience in the real world, dealing with Tazhad bandits and hiding in among the scrub, wadis and sand, he was that much harder to detect or trace. Whoever these men were, they were not up to the challenge of spotting a ranger moving in his element.

He quickly deduced that these men were not as well-armed as they might be, but enough of a threat to avoid as a single man on the road. They wore no insignia, which was different from what he remembered. In the past, there was no permanent garrison in Bosfyrd, but William of Barkstead had men at arms that were scrupulously disciplined and avoided abusing the villages, since they were themselves local boys taken into service. These seemed like mercenaries, but they probably wouldn't molest trade for absolutely no reason. 

So he'd packed his bow and armor onto his second horse along with other supplies and made himself to look like a peddler on the road; he was out of money for the most part, so the men that came to look over his arrival, sullen and armed, seemed to dismiss him once he slipped the last of his coin to them in a bribe that was substantial enough given the class of guard he was dealing with. Some of that was the hour -- after scouting the town, he'd decided to ride in several hours later so that it was still early enough for the first shift to be on duty and cranky about it, or so he hoped. It was also the time of day when everyone was starting to bring their animals out and move around, when the day was starting for the average peasant here. Masef remembered the rhythm well.

[b]"Mind yourself, stranger,"[/b] was music to his ears -- he'd succeeded in seeming harmless. The rebellion against Bloody Harold was an internal thing and Masef was clearly a foreigner, subject to less scrutiny. Dark of hair, eye and olive-skinned, he was no native and that worked to his advantage here. They were checking the locals with far more suspicion, figuring that foreigners had no loyalty to the rebellion or fond memories of the late William of Barkstead...and they apparently knew little of Brand's brood of adopted children.

Hearing and seeing were two different things; locals that recognized him were close-mouthed out of respect, and the nods were subtle under the indolent and occasional glances of the guards who were not Barkstead's men. But he assumed the slouching posture of a weary traveler all the way to the Scuffed Boots, a tavern that catered to the traveler and the local alike. 

The interior was still maintained, but not all the old faces were there; apparently old Dunstan was gone as others were, but Masef didn't know the actual story. But what he did know was that the others would be along.  In a more peaceful time, the tavern made sense as a place to meet without fear. Now, it was the best place to meet only because they all knew it was a good place to gather, but it had its dangers. The voice in his head, not his own, whispered of the potential dangers, as any old intriguer might, and even warned against the cider, given by one of the serving girls that recognized one of Brand's, without bothering about payment, that Masef sipped as it could have been poisoned, but he was used to banishing the voice, even as it tried to warn of betrayal from the locals. 

Qazar didn't know the folk here, Masef did. Brand of the Nightwood was one of their most able defenders. They were holding out against hope that his brood might make their return. A flash of a smile here, a nod there, but carefully blank faces when outsiders were looking. 

Still, it wouldn't do to linger. The village was not his element, but it was a place to meet his siblings and learn of where Brand's remains abided. They would pay respects, and woe betide the bastard that stood in their way.