[b]"As I rode up it, it was incredibly peaceful. I'd wondered where all the bandits had gone. Then I was robbed right here in town."[/b] But then he'd saw Bosfyrd's new garrison -- it seemed like the gallows bait found itself a new occupation besides waylaying the roads -- with Harold's seal, they were now practicing tax collection rather than banditry, and yet the skills apparently translated over. And it wouldn't do for a merchant to not grouse about how he was skinned on the way in.

His face showed the dark stubble of a man that hadn't done much shaving as he charged up the road in relays on horseback. He'd left the weaponry and armor on his horse, figuring, perhaps, that the guards might be too interested in a man that was well armed with well-worn equipment and looked comfortable in it. In fact, he'd thickened his accent on the way in -- he spoke the Vendish tongue with a native accent, but here he used the liquid vowels of Daramalsh, the Great Whore as the city was known, to thicken the speech to near indecipherability. 

So long as the locals that knew him played along, and they had so far, he was alright. But it seemed that Bosfyrd had learned a thing or two about deception and minding their own business and not being, by the by, overly friendly. Even in the Scuffed Boots, there was the impression of people's joy muted.

Quinn's entrance was a little more flamboyant, but it drew a flash of a grin off Masef. It was momentary, because of the pall over the place and because the topic was serious.

[b]"But yes, the Pilgrim Road was quite thirsty, and I fear the road to come will be even more thirsty.[/b]

That thought didn't finish, because the door to the tavern slammed open and six of the men guarding the town swaggered in, loudly demanding their ale and that all the, [b]"lot of you scum can clear out now. We're having a party."[/b] The already were well in the cups it seemed, and by the way they were leering at some of the girls, it looked grim indeed.

Masef didn't look to his brothers, he just took a swig of the rest of his drink to drain it even as his hand inched down to where he had his knife. He knew the drill.