[Indent][I]Village don’t change much, you can come back to them time in and time out and you’ll end up seeing the same sights. The farmhouse you spent the years flirting with the village girls would still stand, the old road leading into village would still lead to the same town, the same town with the same stalls and the same buildings as you remembered from before. The squat thatched houses buildings that looked cold and unwelcome from outside but inside you know a hearth sat filling the dwelling with warmth. And yet these places are not untouched by the hands of time.

The farmhouse you once knew was dilapidated, the founding unkempt and the walls threatening to fall down and was no longer filled with the laughter of mischievous youths , the road leading to a village that was once filled with happy faces and travelers was empty as if it had been forgotten about. Though these did not bother one much, the progression of time was something that people become accustomed to and buildings fall down but can eventually be rebuilt. It was the people that made the change, people are the lifeblood of any village and if they are changed, the village changes in response. People are what makes the home, and creates the roots that bind us. And so Bosfyrd was a changed place, some had lost their lives in the War and the rest left under the oppression of Harold’s men. Smiling faces turned suspicious and downtrodden, reminiscent of those of an animal dying of blood loss knowing soon it would die. Drained, that was a way to describe all those that lived under Harold’s rule drained like stuck pigs through taxation and oppression as long as his coffers were filled he cared not for his peasantry.[/I]

Sigur walked into the village and drew a few eyes as he did. Due to his general racial features to hide as a common merchant or traveler was not an option and so he had to as Brand had taught him [i]pick a role you can play[/i]. Sigur had chosen the rule of a hunter a common  occurrence appearing and vanishing in the Nightwood making their living killing the beasts that lived within, and so in places like Bosfyrd seeing these men traveling across the road was a common enough occurrence. What drew the eyes was the prize he carried over one shoulder, the severed head of a large Dire Wolf. A Dire Wolf’s fur was coarser and rougher than that of their normal cousins and so was less valuable on the market. The Teeth was what fetched a larger price used primarily to make tools or jewelry the canines fetched a large price for any hunter that was skilled enough to take one of the massive beasts down. This backed with the bow on his back and his current attire definitely made him look the part.

The spectacle was intended as Sigur was the type that preferred to blend in through sheer audacity rather than subtle intrigue. Harold’s men asked him simple question of who he was, a traveling hunter, what he was doing here, finding a craftsmen to take the head that was encumbering him and if he had seen anything suspicious, nothing of the sort. Then automatically assumed he was no trouble, he was a stranger for surely they would of been warned of a man like himself, their observers would have seen him and travelers and strangers were not the ones that they needed to worry about with sedition. Though it was duly noted that they should let him go through without asking him for a charitable donation for he did not look the type that would be intimidated by a few armed men. And there was truly no need for them to anger such a man as for him to cause unneeded problems.

Sigur wandered the main road playing his part as the stranger looking for a shop that he could sell his trophy to. He directed himself down the path to Old Finn’s place, and was mentally relieved when he found the grizzled grey haired veteran still manning his shop. His tanner’s shop smelled the same as it did as a boy of oil, fire, leather and strong ale in equal amounts and it was first thing that truly made him feel like home. The two talked snippets of information passed along as idle banter as they bartered over the price of the teeth. What he was able to piece together from the hints that he was given pretty much confirmed what he had seen as he entered the village. Harold’s men were occupying the village to put any one foolish enough to follow in the Duke’s footsteps and well most of the regulars still were around, they had lost some to the War. After finally reaching upon a reasonable price, money and head were exchanged, Finn giving the half-orc a small knowing smile as Sigur made his goodbyes and grumbled about the prices. 

Following his role as the disgruntled hunter angered at scrooge old men he decided his next  move was to go to the Tavern to drown down his anger and find a hot meal. In reality it was to see who was around. Brand had once said that for the lonely soul one only needed to go to a tavern to find those that would indulged in your loneliness together. In short if you were looking for old friends always go to the  place where they were selling the alcohol. The Scuffed Boots was no exception, in the days of his youth everyone could be found within its walls from the physician, to the farmers, the blacksmith, the girls and the boys trying to woo them. It was a place that brought to mind only good memories of singing, dancing and general amusement. Dunstan was easy on the tap and generous with his food, the Scuffed Boots was a home to anyone that entered it be a stranger or regular. He made a show of it first going to one of the garrison and asking him where he could find a stiff drink, though at first annoyed it seemed he would take anything to not to stare down the same patch of road forever and pointed him towards the tavern.

When he entered the Scuffed Boots the familiar clatter of clay cups meeting wet lips and chewing mouths was heard. Though most of the farmers would be bringing their lifelines out to pasture some of the merchants and others would go to the tavern first, having been working either through the early morning already or just wanting to get in a hot meal first. He walked over feet dragging faking the best amounts of fatigue he could, a feat he knew well knowing what it felt to have worked all down bringing the harvests in. He came to a stop at the bar where he ordered a Fireale, the stuff was a specialty in these parts spiced with herbs found  growing on the edge of the Nightwood and payed with his money earned from his kill. As he sipped from the flagon he moved his eyes around casualty around the tavern and took note of those around, familiar faces stood out to him and the subtle eye contact that was made knew told Sigur that they remembered him as well. 

His eyes finally stopped upon a figure, a traveler by the looks of it sitting alone. The man’s skin was almost as dark as the ale he was drinking. Sigur knew who he was almost immediately, once he knew face it was hard for him to forget it, especially one of his own siblings. And so Sigur stood up with ale and made his way to to where Masef was seated, he calmly took a seat next across from him and spoke. [b]“Merchant, is the Pilgrimage Path traveling well?”[/b] These words were important for it was common vernacular, words known simply by travelers to tell they mean no harm and that they just wanted information. Using such a traditional method put out the idea to any potential eavesdroppers that they were just meeting for the first time. As he did no expression change was visible in Sigur face, no sense of joy, no sense of excitement, the best his sibling would get was a knowing wink as he sat down that lasted for less than a second.[/indent]