[i]Clip, Clop. Clip, Clop. Clip, Clop.[/i]

The relentless drumming of his horse’s hooves pervaded his head, interrupting his thought and bouncing around his skull. He was an impressive beast, almost 16 hands in height with a heavily built frame, covered in rippling, muscular cords against the jet black hair of the creature; its mane fluttered through the breeze as the head of the human ducked and rose as it traversed the leagues. The hood of his cloaked was tugged and tussled by the wind as his horse carved its way through the landscape. Varzhul was riding hard for the sleep village of Bosfryd, his boiling, white hot anger barely held in check as his mind tried to re-establish the emotional controls that he once relied upon.  The best father figure he’d had in life had been brutally cut down by the tyrant king Harold’s men and now he rode to bring justice and vengeance to those responsible. He was sure that other members of Brand’s Brood, as they had been affectionately titled by the villagers of Bosfryd would be travelling to the village too; between them they’d more than likely be able to create a decent plan to avenge their father. 

The death of Brand had brought him back to reminiscing about the days of living in his camp, the lessons and the training; equal parts harsh and kind, they’d forged once despondent orphans into young men and women who had the world at their feet. He marvelled at the lush, abundant landscape that flourished alongside the cobbled road; it was an incredible contrast to the monastery of Khartool from where he’d ridden. While a hospitable enough temple, it lay in a blasted and unforgiving landscape, where the weak were trained to become the strong and where the nature of evil itself could be fought. Varzhul couldn’t help but allow a smirk to spread across his face, grinning like a fool while the warm rays of the sun beamed down upon him, filling him with its warmth and enlighten his positivity. The calls and cries of lazy birds and beast alike cut through the air, projected from the undergrowth and forests surrounding him; it truly was a blessed land. Yet the paradisian landscape around him shrouded the darkness which had permeated these lands, not in the form of ancient evil or creatures of the night but by the actions of an empowered tyrant.  

It was not far from where he passed now that Brand had found him as a dishevelled, disheartened and diabolical youth; covered in the blood of beasts and sickly with a plague of the mind and soul. The kindness which had once lifted him from the pits of despair had been extinguished by this tyrant, this King Harold, who had never been threatened by the action of Brand. All reports he’d heard was that Brand had kept neutral in the times of war, preferring the company of the forest and his orphans to that of the field of battle and the armies of the land. Yet it had mattered little in the end as his father had been hunted and killed, at no small loss to King Harold’s men if the reports were to be believed. That was not all the losses that this ungodly king would suffer either.

The end to a curve in the pleasant track revealed the dark centre of corruption that now pervaded through the land; bandits turned king’s soldier who encamped themselves on towns, villages, roads and bridges alike, enforcing taxes and tolls to pass through these thoroughfares. It was a company of four men, not livened in any discernible insignia along with the bearing of those used to stealing and killing the commonfolk of the land; they were bandits turned tax collectors, not that they had been much difference between the occupants of those roles beforehand. The quartet stood to arms when they saw his massive black charger round the corner, slowed down to a gentle walk to both rest the beast and to project an air of peace and pointlessness to the men. They were almost licking their lips with anticipation at the potential wealth of the man riding towards them; horses such as this were few and far between, usually carrying a hefty place at any market around the world. They were the steeds of lords and kings, yet the ride was no noble, he was alone and dishevelled from travel on the road, surely an easy target. Varzhul left his two short swords hidden under the sleeping roll on the back of the horse; there was no need to alert the men to his actual specialty but instead rest his hand on the pommel of the longsword strapped the front right quarter of his horse. Whilst unsuitable to be used in tandem with another blade, it was far more suited to be used on horseback, giving him reach enough to rain blows on mounted or dismounted enemies alike.

[b]“Ho there”[/b] he called out to the four men gathered together, who looked amongst each other with a smirk as if to say [i]who is the fool who calls out to four armed men on a highway[/i]. [b]“Be you men of the king?”[/b] he added as he removed his hood revealing a well-travelled face along with his best attempt at holding a friendly appearance. 

[b]“Aye we are”[/b] came the leering reply from what he supposed was their leader, a swarthy, unkempt man with a pockmarked face and as Varzhul discovered as he drew closer, in possession of a foul odour of unwashed man and the stench of stale food. [b]“This road ‘ere belongs to the king, we’ve been put here to protect it against bandits and thugs”[/b] he informed Varzhul with an alarmingly toothless grin. [b]“There’s a toll on this road though, to pay for the protection of this road”[/b] he added as the grin on his face grew ever larger, revealing a decaying mouth and a breath that managed to overwhelm even the body odour of the man. 

[b]“Certainly my good fellow”[/b] Varzhul called back to the four men, towering over them as he remained mounted, utilising the size and bulk of his horse to usurp the power in the conversation. [b]“What will the toll be? I’d willingly support the eradication of ruffians and highwayman alike!”[/b] he answered with a mockingly cheerful tone in his voice. [b]“In fact were I not on my journey of homage, I’d pledge my sword and arm to help slay such men were they to exist in the land! I’ve been paid to slay bandits in most of the known world you see, they’re a plague upon the land. Here I’d do it for free, for the good of the King and his people of course.”[/b] His voice had taken a colder tone as his hand strayed to the hilt of his longsword to emphasise his point to the man.

[b]“Well, uh …. normally the toll would be greater, seeing as such a fine beast would attract all sorts of wrong folk. But, uh, given your generous offer”[/b] the swarthy man paused as visible beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and his neck began to stiffen from craning it to look up at the man who suddenly carried himself with an air of danger. [b]“I’ll leave the toll at five coins as long as you tell us your business here.”[/b]

[b]“Why thank you my good man, I’ll pass word of how friendly and safe this road is for travellers along to all I meet!”[/b] his voice adopted the cheery tone again, beaming inwardly at the cowardice of the man. [b]“I’m passing along this road to Bosfyrd to rest and replenish my provisions before I set off to a nearby battlefield, I’ve come to pay homage to my father. He was a king’s man you see, died fighting the bandits of the area. A good man, such as yourself really.”[/b] All the while he told the story, he rummaged around his coin pouch and produced five coins before dipping his hand back in and producing another two, proclaiming [b]“here’s your toll and a little bonus, buy yourselves and your good men a drink when you reach the town. Drink to the king’s health, my good man”[/b]. The men looked bemused at each other and nodded to each other eventually, as he simply cantered past the men waving joyfully as he set off towards to ever nearer town, drawing his hood back over his head. 

When he arrived in the town he drew an array of looks from townsfolk and mercenary alike, he was not a common sight to be seen in the town and many avoided the path of the his charger, assuming it to belonging to a nobleman or man of power. He reached the centre of town with minimal fuss as he drew his hood back to survey the depressing state of Bosfyrd as the persecuted villagers hurried around and generally looked downtrodden by their unwelcome garrison. A few of the villagers recognised him with sly smiles which were quickly hidden now that his face had been bared to the world. One of them, an old farmer by the name of Marn pointed towards the local tavern, a nice enough place if his memory served his days of sneaking out of Brand’s camp to the tavern. His eyes narrowed when he saw six of the thugs occupying the town stride into the tavern, their body language suggesting nothing good would come from their tavern visit. He dismounted his giant of a horse, landing with a rare grace on the muddy ground before he tied the beast up alongside the tavern. He removed his travelling cloak and strapped on one his short swords to his wait, making sure to keep the other well hidden on his horse. 

As he entered the tavern he immediately saw a scene that would easily turn violent, he recognised what could easily be an aged Sigur, Quinn and possibly even the flame-haired Lysandra along with a darker-skinned man who didn’t fit the town. He kept his right hand near the pommel of the blade strapped onto his right hip, that was where any foe would naturally assume the first attack to come from of course. He passes a knowing gaze to the other members of Brand’s Brood as he waited out the situation.