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. "Mind yourself, stranger," 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.

"Quinn, I'm not sure if this will reach you in time, but you must come home to Bosfyrd. A squad of soldiers just arrived in town. They bore no sigil nor brandished any orders or advertisement for work. Yet they are well armed and carry themselves with a purpose. I fear that they may be here for reasons related to the Revolt. Worse still, they ask about your father to all the merchants that stop by the town and every shop they visit. I sold them a hogpiss yarn about the old man visiting Orayn to trade pelts for rare elf-grown fruits but I'd eat my bandanna if they believed me. I know you took your leave of Brand years ago but perhaps it would be time for a visit, aye?" With a barely audible sigh, the elf carefully refolded the letter and stowed it away in one of his belt's spare pouches. The news of his adoptive father's death had come almost on the heels of that first; postage between villages was still slow and primitive next to word of mouth and loose tongued travelers. Meena's letter was hastily scrawled; her normally impeccable writing jagged and oddly pressured but still noticeably hers. The raven haired merchant was a regular sight in Bosfyrd as well as one of Quinn's oldest friends. They were close, maybe closer than just friends, and the elf trusted her word equally next to his siblings' and almost as much as his father's. If she had any qualms about these newcomers, it was most definitely something to check in on. A bump in the dirt road jerked the ranger forward from his seat in the back of the wagon. "Sorry about that one. Damn roots sticking out of the ground always tripping up my wheels." Came the low growl from the front. Hammet, the merchant wagon driver Quinn secured transportation with, was a stocky grey whiskered fellow who, in his own opinion, was the finest purveyor of fine wines and craft brews. However he also had the temperament to match his product's strength. Through some lucky happenstance, Quinn was able to persuade the squat human to give him a lift to Bosfyrd in exchange for hunting down dinner/protection on the road. Still, the merchant's usually terse demeanor interrupted by occasional bouts of cursing and growling, led the elf to wonder if this merchant ever actually managed to sell anything. I guess it doesn't matter how crotchety the seller is as long as the stuff is top shelf... "Oh it's no problem at all," Quinn cheerfully replied, rubbing his slightly whiplash strained neck, "we should be getting close to the village now." The two men exchanged looks as the dual horse drawn covered wagon rounded the last bend in the road before Bosfyrd's outlying homes. The elf reached behind the wagon's bench style front seats, checking to see that his dark green ranger cloak, weapon harness, quiver, bow and sword were all still bundled safe and sound. In their place, he wore a noticeably elf made crimson traveling cloak and brown tunic. If Brand indeed was the target of the soldiers now inside the town, as well as the scrutiny that being a target came with, it was best to appear a complete third party to the situation. The ranger had even gone through the trouble of buying a couple small casks of mid tier elven brandy to better pass on the idea of being a liquor peddler. As the pair neared the town proper, the precaution for a disguise was proven well founded. "Sorry, boys," Hammet rumbled as a pair of guards came forward to inspect their shipment and papers. "I'd love to sell ya lads some brews but it seems you're on duty." Quinn's quick eyes didn't miss the looks exchanged and it took a measurable amount of control to not smirk. The elf recalled a conversation he had with the merchant a couple days prior. As merchants go, you have two options for getting through security without hassle: coin or other goods. If you can afford the hit (and as a merchant, not entirely likely) go for the coin. On the other hand if you have something security wants, give them some of what you're selling, trumped up of course. "But it is difficult to sell this higher end stuff, aged beautifully in maple barrels, but no one seems to want it..." ever the salesman, Hammet held aloft a decent but altogether not higher end bottle of liquor. With a shrewd look from under a pair of bushy brows, the human shrugged and offered the bottle to the guards. "Eh...sod it - take it of my hands!" Without further harassment, the two travelers moved on, their former interrogators passing the bottle between themselves. "It's all about two things, lad." Hammet later said once out of earshot. "That you can polish a piece of horse dung and that the poor sod that buys it can't tell two and two before you leave." That was probably the first time Quinn ever saw the old man crack a grin, much less the toothy smile he was sporting that second. As the wagon came to a stop before the Scuffed Boots, Hammet clasped the elf on the shoulder. "Thanks again for all the help on the road, kid, and..." he added the last in a whisper, "...sorry about Brand. He was a good man." Quinn nodded, smiled, and stepped down from the wagon to busy himself with helping Hammet unload the kegs and crates that was the Boots' standard liquor order. Once finished and inside the homely tavern, Quinn took his leave from Hammet and took a seat at the bar with his bundle of ranger gear leaned against his stool. He sipped twice from the pint of dark stout set before him and took a minute to look around the half full living room. Even with the decidedly traditional elven garb, some of the townsfolk recognized him but were cognizant enough to not make a scene. The archer caught sight of his true target though. With an air of confidence and an arm cradling one of the unopened casks, Quinn first approached a handful of other tables offering his ware, even pouring out a shot or three, and finally coming to a stop at his two seated siblings. "Gentlemen, you both look equal parts well traveled and richly experienced." He laid the small wooden cask on the table between his adoptive brothers and sat himself down in an empty chair. "Perhaps this will interest you, the finest elven brandy from beyond the Nightwood."

Like the abrupt transition of winter to spring, Bosfyrd had transformed from a once peaceful town to just another cautionary tail of what awaited the last remaining free cities not yet under Harold’s thumb. Streets once filled with laughter, excited stories and hushed rumors accompanied with friendly smiles, were now almost void of life. The townsfolk, nowadays, seemed to keep to themselves as much as they could. They couldn’t be blamed though, no one knew who could be listening and with pockets of guards patrolling the streets no one wanted to chance the risk. Lysandra spied the street below from her little room on the second floor of the Scuffed Boots. It didn’t offered the best of views with dust and grime encrusted into the window from years of being unwashed, but nevertheless it was the best she had while being cooped up in the tavern. Two days prior, Brand’s adoptive daughter had reached Bosfyrd and with the help of Dunstan’s oldest daughter and good friend of hers, Emma, was able to acquire sanctuary. Her original plan had been to sneak into Brand’s estate and confirm the news of his demise herself, but she hadn’t counted on the estate being under heavily scrutinizing surveillance. Not being able to enter the estate but also not giving up on trying to find answers of what had become of her father, Lysandra had no choice but to fall back and think of a new plan. There weren’t many folks she could trust in the town and those that did recognized her offered little more than what she already knew. Luck would just have it that she did ran into Meena in the market place the day before and was told that word had been sent some time ago to her brother, Quinn. With the news, Lysandra didn’t have a shadow of a doubt that not only Quinn, but also other members of Brand’s lot would be in-tow back to town – all she needed to do was wait patiently and remain inconspicuous while in Bosfyrd, something she was all to well at. From her window she watched as a wagon slowly came to halt in front of the tavern and its two occupants set about unloading some of the kegs of mead and other substances to replenish the Scuffed Boots wares. She couldn’t quite make out whom the two men were or if she even recognized them but it didn’t matter much, she needed to finish getting dressed for her role as a simple and unsuspecting tavern wench. With one final look outside, Lysandra turned her attention to her bed where a few choice knives were laid out along with her rope darts. She would conceal the knives on her person and the rope darts, attached to her wrists, would be hidden under her sleeves of her simple brown dress. The rest of her equipment was tucked away inside the straw of the bed for safekeeping. These days one could never be too careful.Because of her red hair, Lysandra needed to wear a wimple around her head to keep unwanted eyes away and be less distinguishable from all the other females in town. The old stairs just outside her door creaked and moaned in protest announcing the sound of approching company, shortly after there was a soft knock on her door. Making sure the last of her hair was neatly concealed; Lysandra proceeded to answer the door. Emma quickly slipped into the room before the door had even been open wide enough, a small smile stretching her thin lips. “What is it?” Lysandra whispered glancing out the hallway and down the stairs to make sure no one had followed the female before closing the door. “Masef…he is here. I recognized him almost immediately.” She breathed excitedly. Lysandra took a moment to consider the implications; the youngest of Brand’s brood was here. “Are you certain?” “Yes.” She whispered back, “I handed him a drink myself. Go downstairs and see if you do not believe me.” If Masef was here that meant that others must be close by also. She hadn’t seen her youngest brother in a few years, not since he had left the estate. Matter of fact, she hadn’t seen any of her siblings since they all parted their own ways. Despite not being the youngest, Lysandra had been the last one to leave Brand’s side some three years ago on her way to make a life in the capitol and had the bitter sweet pleasure of wishing the others good fortune on their trips and endeavors. Emma was right though, she did need to go downstairs and confirm it was truly her sibling. “Count to twenty after I’ve left before returning downstairs.” Lysandra instructed her friend before slipping out of the room and making her way to the tavern floor. The room was only half full as she took note of everyone’s faces and made her way to the bar proper. She didn’t spot Masef right away but instead caught sight of another of her siblings, Sigur. It was hard to miss the distinct pigment of his skin and coarse appearance as he walked over to a table nestled in the back corner housing the one and only Masef, himself. She was delighted to see not one but two of her siblings had made it back to Bosfyrd and they both seemed in very good health. The smallest hint of a smile tickled the corners of her lips, hardly noticeable to any stray eyes that might have been looking her way at the time. She wanted nothing more than to run over and embrace her brothers in a warm and tight embrace, but that would not only be impractical but could but their very lives at risk. For now it was just enough to know that they were alive and more importantly they were here, even if the reason for their reunion was the death of the one man that had brought them all together. Hiding her smile from prying eyes, Lysandra quietly disappeared into the back kitchen.

"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." 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. "But yes, the Pilgrim Road was quite thirsty, and I fear the road to come will be even more thirsty. 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, "lot of you scum can clear out now. We're having a party." 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.

"Aye, the collectors of the coin have heavy hands indeed." Sigur muttered in mutual agreement as he raised his cup to his mouth. The garrison at Bosfryd seemed to be nothing more than a collection of scoundrels meant to suppress the populace. Even so give a scoundrel the blessing of a king, and they act like lords themselves. It sickened Sigur, men of the watch were supposed to be defenders of the peace, keepers of the land, a fact that Barkstead's men understand well, and a concept that was as alien to Harold's thugs as washing themselves. Sigur was slightly shocked of how much Masef had aged since he had last seen the boy sitting across from him. When Sigur had left Brand's care the boy was just eight winters young, a young pup by most standards. A curious young child that always got into trouble, and always seemed to find a way to have his punishments diverted to his older siblings. For a young one he was sly as a fox. Though at times Sigur wanted to crush the boy, he had warmed up to him eventually. He wondered if he had still kept up with his longbow training after Sigur had left. Though it had seemed that the young child he once knew had certainly matured into a strapping young lad. In a way this made the aging half-orc feel equal parts nostalgic and very old himself. How he longed for those simpler years back before everything seemed to become distorted, and confused in his heart. The two talked very little as they sat at the table both nursing their own drinks, but the little words they did have carried sparks and flecks of information on them. Quinn always did have the flare for the theatrical when they were younger and his entrance showed that this side of him had not dampened with age. When the "honest merchant" came to their table offering his brandy, something deep inside of the half-orc chuckled even as he held a straight face. Sigur decided to play along with the show and with a quick exchange of coins for a glass of fine brandy, the hunter offered a chair to the merchant, and it all seemed normal. In a very quick span three brothers had become united together under one roof once again. It felt good to Sigur, it felt right. "But yes, the Pilgrim Road was quite thirsty, and I fear the road to come will be even more thirsty." "Indeed. The air was unnaturally calm this morning of my hunt. A storm must be coming." The half-orc added in agreement to his younger brother, though it may of seemed like just talk of the weather to any of those not listening carefully. Moments later the "guardsmen" entered the building. Sigur kept casual as they barked their demands, and he seemed to just continue to enjoy his drink. In reality he was scoping out the room they were in as it evolved into a battlefield in his mind. He watched the faces of the worried girls and other patrons, making notes of their positions just in case they did not have the good sense to run. He finished his analysis just as the last drop left his cup, and he made little show of standing up and placing the cup upon the table. "Excuse me gentlemen, I must go pay my tab and be off. I would not want to anger our guests" Without any other words he left his brothers at the table and walked back over to the bar. He placed himself strategically between the guards and the serving girl with the nervous look in her eyes. He shuffled around in his pocket for coins, as he did his eyes flickered up to the girl's and a moment of recognition was passed. He was not going to let the beasts have their way. His other hand slowly descend towards the hilt of his blade and he waited. It would be just like old times it seemed.

Clip, Clop. Clip, Clop. Clip, Clop. 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. “Ho there” he called out to the four men gathered together, who looked amongst each other with a smirk as if to say who is the fool who calls out to four armed men on a highway. “Be you men of the king?” he added as he removed his hood revealing a well-travelled face along with his best attempt at holding a friendly appearance. “Aye we are” 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. “This road ‘ere belongs to the king, we’ve been put here to protect it against bandits and thugs” he informed Varzhul with an alarmingly toothless grin. “There’s a toll on this road though, to pay for the protection of this road” 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. “Certainly my good fellow” 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. “What will the toll be? I’d willingly support the eradication of ruffians and highwayman alike!” he answered with a mockingly cheerful tone in his voice. “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.” His voice had taken a colder tone as his hand strayed to the hilt of his longsword to emphasise his point to the man. “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” 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. “I’ll leave the toll at five coins as long as you tell us your business here.” “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!” his voice adopted the cheery tone again, beaming inwardly at the cowardice of the man. “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.” 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 “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”. 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.

The graveyard of Bosfyrd was a small affair, set on a hill over looking Fool’s Lake, and a short ride from the village itself. You could see the faint glow of torches of night fisherman from the roofs if the fog permitted and the sun and moon both lay low; at least that was Kazahk’s memory of the place. The small path that lead out to this place was predominantly for mourners or those of bait and lure, and the simple headstones sat in their own world away from the occasional flooding of the lake and graverobbers. The people of Bosfyrd were not well off enough to face that threat Kazahk presumed. Still, he had come here nightly the past three days to pay his respects to the late Tagerdson, under the cover of darkness, and the cloak of a fishermen. He came bearing flowers and a heavy heart which tugged at his paranoia as he overlooked the lake, his hair stood up from a chill brought on by the water and the history he shared with this place. For all the tears he had shed for the lad under his feet now, it mattered little now that Brand had been murdered. Fists clenched, knuckles popped and turned white on his grey kin as he thought of revenge. But also of his failure to the man, who had raised him with nothing but the best intentions. How must he have felt, seeing a child under hios care to protect, cut down by another that he had failed to tutor? Kazahk did not like dwelling on that subject for it brought a guilty bile to the back of his throat. He was not the man Brand was, and that was evident even now. But he could make thing’s right perhaps, if gypses were true. Then again they had been wrong about heading north for salvation. The tattooed gulag marks on his wrists and ankles proved that much. He made his way back into the village before dawn broke, has he had been since his clandestine arrival stuffed away in a carriage. His sanctuary during the daylight hours where prying eyes might recognize the infamous drow was the upstairs of a local shopkeep Kazahk had come to know since his escape from the Jarl five years ago. The man was actually a fence that harked and bought his products from the travels of the road with little to no question on their origin. Kazahk came to know him from a similar and larger distributor to the east who mentioned the little town of Bosfyrd. Since then through correspondence and a bit of coin, the fence served as the drow’s eyes and ears for the place, and now safe haven. The fence was no local, but his knack for gossip told him enough to connect the dots that the strange dark elf that paid him was the same one that drew ire in retelling of old stories for the villagers. Good coin was good coin however, and he let it be, having only been asked to sneak Kazahk in and shelter him discreetly for a short time. tak tak tak thump Three rapid knocks and a thump roused Kazahk from a lethargic nightmare with a slashing of a dagger he’d pulled from his person. It only took a second for him to decipher the intrusion however; the fence had news. Light blue eyes peeked through the crack in the door that opened slightly. “Yes?” The fence seemed flustered, mostly likely from the pace he had put himself through running up from the street up to the attic. “They’re here. An elf, an orcish fellow and a dark-skinned lad, though I can’t be sure about the other rumors. You can’t be certain going only on hair color, even if it is supposedly red ya know. Regardless, the three in question are at the tavern right this moment.” A silver coin tumbled out of the doorway and the fence cursed as hit his chest and tumbled down the first two steps. The door closed with a thump before anything else could be said. Kazahk was out on the street, face in plain view striding defiantly towards the tavern before the fence could talk him out of it. His fur lined cloak flapped behind him defiantly as he dug his heels into the earth and villagers did small double takes to register what they had seen. The older locals scowled and widened their eyes, for there had only been one male drow around these parts with a reputation, and it wasn’t a particularly good one. The fact that Kazahk was now coming into his own physically as a young Drow did nothing to calm onlookers, though he did have the mind to leave his steed and his war making regalia back at the fences. A short sword in a scabbard and a hatchet tucked into the small of his back were all he lay armed with, and he could hear them tinker as he strode. A rather large horse came up to the tarvern in the distance, and a rider Kazahk couldn’t make out dismounted. A few worried customers seemed to be stumbling out of the few entrances as well. Ever the pessimist, Kazahk thought of the worst as he picked up his stride and made his way to the door behind the man with the warhorse. The sight and smell of six drunk guards men, a tavern quickly trying to empty itself, and a hesitant, immediately recognizable few who were very tense, greeted the dark elf’s glare. He could spot Sigur from the lot atwixt a barmaid and the drunkards, his orcish brawn was something he had no desire to quarrel with given the family history. Quinn’s elvish features gave him away to be the young lad Kazahk used to bully and compete with as youths. The name almost escaped him, but dashing looks aside, the dark skin of Masef was the clue that set in his head. But he was most enraptured with the red hair, he could hardly figure out her name that he almost forgot about the man who entered before him and his identity. Quick mental arithmetic didn’t leave much for the family tree, and his twelve year absence didn’t assist his recollection any, but the man fit the bill for Varzhul from his perspective. ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk Kazahk’s heavy boots echoed as he furtively walked into the tavern. He kept his face uncovered, and gave all his relatives a solid, tight-lipped look before looking back at the guards, who themselves were started to wonder about all the backbone that had suddenly sprung from a drinking establishment. One such curious guard turned around to catch Kazahk’s entrance. He spun about at the waist, before thumping with a fat protruding index finger of the chest of Kazahk, who looked down at him with as much malice as he could muster. “Tavern’s closed sootskin. Remove yourself!” Kazahk gave one more look to his adopted kin, seeing their strategic positions and hands near their weapons, before giving the slightest of nods. Then, he brought his forehead clean through the cartilage of the guards nose, grabbed him by his instigating arm, and hurled him into his nearest comrade, causing them to both go down in a sprawl heap of curses and contempt. As he spun from his toss, the cloak dropped his feet and he grabbed the nearest abandoned ale to take a swig. “Welcome Home!” was all he could say, and he meant it.

Quinn looked about the room, sizing up all the newcomers. From his stepbrothers, Masef, Sigur, and Varzuhl to the intoxicated guards, the hunter's quick eyes took it all in. Six guards to the apparent four of Brand's wards. Actually five...I think... The elf thought with a frown, eyes accustomed to tracking game may have seen the crimson locks of his younger stepsister, Lysandra, before their owner ducked away into the inn's kitchen. The odds weren't bad, quite good for them actually once you factored in the liquor. He had seen Sigur completely overwhelm twice that many by himself. Varzuhl was a genius with two blades in hand. Masef had a style all his own, combining the strengths of two homelands. Finally, if she was actually there and not imaginary, Lysandra would've secured them victory with her complete mastery of those strange roped weapons of hers... However there was the issue of secrecy, ending any confrontation with it intact, as well as maintaining the safety of the others in the inn. Also adding the fact that Brand's elven stepson was currently unarmed didn't exactly help either. To better keep up with his disguise, the elf had left all his weapons in the bundle now definitely out of reach at the bar. Definitely a tactical error... Quinn chided himself, his palms closing around the end of the cask set down before him. The analysis ended in a flash however. The latest patron to visit the Scuffed Boots was one that the elf thought he'd never see again. Kazahk stepped into the inn with a purpose, straight from memory. Quinn remembered the issues they had as children growing up, probably one of the few consistently rough experiences he'd gone through. That all ended when Kazahk and Brand almost came to blows, heated words were said, and another stepbrother ended up in the ground. The two elves had not seen each other since. However if there was a positive outcome to all that, it was that he could better appreciate the good times and the siblings who were still alive and well. With a knowing look, Kazahk showed that he still had his hand to hand skills, skills the Drow would frequently use to best Quinn on many sparring matches. Well at least some things don't change. In the confusion of the throw as well as Kazahk's bold reaction, the tavern's living room devolved into utter chaos. "Gut that sootskin!!" were the rallying cries of the two guards sprawled on the floor. At once, one of the four guards still standing advanced with his blade half drawn towards the dark elf's left shoulder. A half full wooden cask of quality elven brandy to the head kept that particular guard from closing the distance. Wooden splinters, wasted alcohol, and the guard himself toppled to the ground in an unceremonious heap. Without waiting for a reprisal from the others, Quinn flitted to the front of the bar, looking to put himself between the rest of the guards and as many patrons as possible. Along the way, the elf archer glanced at his siblings, hoping that they were on their way. Once he reached the bar, Quinn caught Kazahk's gaze for a split second before swiping the elven curve blade from its sheath. The elven fighter kept his stance towards the guards mostly but also kept his sight on the Drow. Whatever his plan is, it's probably not good...

When the cry went up to kill a brother, Masef moved fast; he'd always been smooth, gifted with reflexes and hand-eye coordination. He had a skinning knife on him, but it wasn't the ideal weapon to use against men in armor in a standup fight. Burn! the voice in his head screamed, but Masef ignored it, knowing that it was the old warlock, trying to find ways to gain a greater foothold on his soul. He could feel the power drawing in, flexing itself, ready to be released, but screamed back at his own mind, No! Masef looked like a crazed man for a moment, that alien expression crossing his face before Qazar, a tyrant of legendary cruelty, was locked back in his prison. It was bad enough that the old bastard already had one bony finger dipped in his soul, staining like blood in pristine waters. Old Qazar didn't know it all, but Brand had given Masef the skills he was using right now; his larger brothers were already taking up the attention of the guards with their larger presences. He moved along the outskirts of the fight, making sure to keep the guards in front of Sigur and Kazahk. When one of the guards pulled a blade, about to go after Kazahk, he swung into action; a fireplace poker was the handiest weapon he had, but it was good enough for what it had to do; it might not penetrate good chainmail very well, but it did wonders when swung at the back of a man's knee; that one screamed and dropped his weapon in agony. Masef, however, didn't hesitate. Instead, he pistoned a booted foot down on the man's head. Perhaps Daramalsh made him harder -- the old Masef wasn't quite so quick to put a man down, but this was a life or death fight with steel bared. The guard got off lucky, and Masef took the fellow's sword from nerveless fingers.

For a moment the sight of her siblings sitting together and talking, just like the old days, brought a light and sincere smile to Lysandra's face. Perhaps, the first one in months. Ever since leaving the bustling Capital and retreating into hiding, the female had kept herself a recluse. During her time in the city she had allowed greed, vices, and temptation to cloud her judgement and to lose sight of her father's teaching. Such lapse had cost her dearly not only physically but emotionally also, having allowed Dorian to burrowed himself deeper into her heart than she should have. But with her siblings only a few feet away, the world seemed a little brighter once again. Their presence, however, was only a momentary relief as the cause for their clandestine encounter slithered its way back into the forefront of her mind- an ever present reminder of Brand's absence from this family reunion. With a simple idea to at the very least make her presence known, Lysandra set about the kitchen preparing bowls of potato stew to bring to her siblings. In accordance with her disguise as a tavern maid, no one would suspect her true relationship with the simple traveler and common hunter. Swift hands quickly had two bowls filled and sitting on a tray as she made her way back out into the main floor. A group of guards stumbled into the bar with words slurred, knees wobbling and causing quite a ruckus out of the otherwise peaceful establishment. The young female released a flustered sigh at the sight of them. This was the last thing that they needed, especially when secrecy was the name of the game. They didn't, yet, know exactly what they were dealing with or the full extent of the situation pertaining to Brand. And as such it behooved them to keep a low profile and a tavern fight was quite the opposite of maintaining one. One glance towards her siblings and immediately she knew the situation at hand was about to escalate. Masef was still sitting at the table and to anyone else he might have still seemed relaxed and unbothered by the rowdy guards, but she knew better than to believe that. Her eyes catching the slightest movement of his hand towards the pommel of his weapon. Most notably, though, wasn't Masef but the elf that was sitting next to him. She quickly recognized him as her older sibling Quinn - there only been two elves within Brand's brood. He must have arrived sometime after she had gone into the kitchen, but nevertheless she was grateful for his presence, they would need him if the situation got out of hand. Lysandra spotted Sigur over at the bar with Emma and with the tray in hand, she too made her way over. Strategically speaking, it made sense. Masef and Quinn on one side and Sigur and her on the other - it almost felt like they were back in the old days. Placing her tray of stew bowls on the bar top, Lysandra locked eyes with Sigur for the briefest of moments, but a second was all that the two needed. She turned to Emma bidding her to stay back in case things got ugly. The last of the Scuffed Boots' clientele were clearing out of the tavern with haste, when another of her siblings entered the establishment. Varzhul, was one of the members of the Brood she hadn't expect to see. But the family reunion just seemed to get better and better as right on Varzhul's heels, Kazahk sauntered into the bar. His dark colored skin and stark white hair were featured that caught anyones' eye as soon as he waltz into a room, raising eyebrows or dropping jaws. The sight of a Dark Elf was a rare one and many times accompanied by ill blood given their harrowing nature. But to Lysandra the sight of the drow only made her frown in disdain, her memories of her older brother tainted by his actions that only seemed to draw a scornful glare from her. Kazahk had a knack to instigate a already delicate situation, and with no surprise to Lysandra, he was the first to throw a figurative punch- or rather a forehead. In a matter of a moment the bar erupted into a full scale brawl. Quinn propelled a cask into a guard and Masef, like a cat on the hunt, struck another from the back of the fight. On Sigur and Lysandra's side, the closest guard had a sword raised at the drow. "Sigur!" With a flick of her wrist and a twirl of her arm, Lysandra let loose one of her roped blades wrapping it around the guards raised arm. With all her might she yanked back on the rope, spinning the man about and throwing him off-balanced practically serving him in a silver platter to her brother.

The situation seemed tense but manageable to Varzhul, the thugs were drunk and more than manageable; stumbling like children and just as weak-willed. That was until he heard the door behind him open and spied the presence of a drow appear from behind him, the chances of it being anymore other than his tainted step brother being as minimal as the situation now remaining peaceful. He wasn’t driven by fear or some sense of cowardice in trying to avoid conflict but rather in an attempt to keep a relatively low profile until they’d had a chance to discuss things as a group. The heavy echoes of the drow’s boot broke the terse silence of the room and his following action completely annihilated the tension. When the scarred drow, always bearing a propensity to violence akin to bloodlust, took offence to the demands of one of the guards it was only going to end one way. The slightest nod was a late warning as the drow proceeded to smash his head through the face of one of the guards, a move that Varzhul highly doubted could draw origins from Brand’s teachings, the room exploded into action. As he began striding forwards at quite a pace, Quinn took the innovative mood of launching a cask of brandy, a move that would’ve caused amusement in Varzhul were he not restraining his emotions as if they were wild, ravenous beasts. Lub-dub Varzhul felt his heartbeat begin to slow in time with his long, deep breaths as his cold, lifeless eyes flickered across to Masef’s interior struggle which he would be sure to inquire about afterwards. Lub-dub The final set of steps took him towards a guard who’d turned to meet his trajectory, sword already raised even as his companions were falling around him. The guard, feeling confident with blade in hand swung across at the unprotected left side of Varzhul, attempting to exploit the fact that his short sword hadn’t yet cleared the sheath. Lub-dub In almost slow motion, Varzhul completed the trap as his left hand, hunting knife clenched in a vice-like grip, moved with an almost inhuman grace in rhythm with a slight spin of the body rival even the best of dancers. There was an audible ting as the two blades met in mid motion, the thug only having time to widen his eyes at the realisation that he’d been tricked and that he had become prey. Varzhul’s momentum continued his current trajectory, leaving the back of the man’s knee crucially unprotected. Lub-dub A boot lashed out, the man crumpled with a pained growl until his head was cracked by the pommel of Varzhul’s short sword, easily incapacitating the man. It’d been simple, elegant and painless, for Varzhul, yet carried out with a brutal efficiency to match that of any wild animal. Lub-dub Releasing his breath with a barely audible sigh, he brought he brought his two blade up, one about twice the size of the other, his right clenched in a traditional grip, his left holding the knife in a reverse grip with the blade running parallel to his arm. His eyes revealed that the landscape of the tavern had changed somewhat; three of the men were down with a fourth stumbling towards Sigur courtesy of Lysandra. Her actions affirmed his suspicions about her identity, the presence of a trained fighter ill fit that of a barmaid, let alone the use of roped daggers, a weapon unique to only one person that he knew. He emotionlessly faced the remaining two, warily watching their move as a predator watches their prey, ready to swoop on a second’s notice.

The familiar call to battle, the cacophony of shouts and unbarred steel. Their was familiarity in the chaos and it felt like home to Sigur. The battlefield was the home of vagabonds, sellswords, and mercenaries alike. Something deep inside of him struggled though, the part of him that had put his life following the way of the blade behind. He knew what coming back to Bosfyrd meant though, it meant more than just paying his respects. Five years it seemed was not enough for him to distance himself from it all. His hand clenched his blade as he took a breath. Everything leading up to this point going through his head, every choice and every action. He knew what a life of violence brought, and he had a taste of what a life of peace could be like. But looking into the eyes of the nervous girl behind the bar he knew. All of this occurring in the span of seconds as he came to a decision. The Green Mountain would live once more. He drew his sword from the scabbard as he turned to face the guards. Sigur was an impressive and fearsome sight to witness in the moment of battle. His hulking frame matched only by the sword he held in his hand. Forged in the flames of the Southern Cities, it was a fearsome sight to behold. It was to be frank, a rather large instrument of death. For most men to use it effectively they would have to hold it aloft with two hands and be resorted to using only clumsy overhand swings and sweeps that threatened to throw them off balance. Sigur was able to wield it effectively with one hand and with precise pinpoint strikes. The very sight of him usually did a number to the moral of his opponents. Their minds having no choice but to conjure up old tales of orcish berserkers ripping through entire regiments. The guards looked perplexed and took one step back unsure of what to do sword raised. Moments later a rope dart slammed into his arms and he was yanked across the floor. Lysandra, he thought he had seen a flick of red hair somewhere in the back corner of the Scuffed Boots. He moved forward to meet the guard with a statuesque intensity of a seasoned warrior. He swung his blade hard putting all his force behind the swing. The guard stood little chance as the blade hit with a well precised sundering blow at a lighter connecting plate of the guard's mail. The guard's flesh beneath provided little in terms of slowing the bleed as it cleaved through muscle and sinew. Blood sputtered across Sigur's face as the blade came free through the other side. Sigur did not spare a glance backwards, he didn't need vision to tell the men was most certainty dead. Eyes glanced at the blade coated with crimson Sigur moved forward towards the remaining two guards that Kazahk had sent to the ground. They were getting up slowly as the rest of his siblings slowly surrounded them. Sigur made mental note of the status of the other guards, they already had a few still breathing for questioning. Anymore survivors would just complicate matters. Taking the initiative he walked forward and unceremoniously buried his blade downward into the chest of one of them. During this execution of sorts his eyes met with Kazahk's and sent out a simple stern message. We will talk later. As he withdrew his blade the other man scrambled backwards getting up to his feet only to end up being cornered between a wall and the half-orc. "What are you all!?" the guard croaked out as Sigur approached. "The Nightwood sends its regards." Those words spoken with chilling calmness were all the guard got as his life met its end against cold steel. Sigur turned to face his siblings and a small smile appeared on his face. Looking at the tavern and the carnage that had ensued he could only laugh at the absurdity of it all. Of all of them meeting one another once again in such a situation. So that was what he did, he began to laugh, a deep and warm laugh that filled the room as he sheathed his blade. "Well, that was interesting."

"It will get more interesting quickly enough." Masef noted coolly, a guard's sword in hand. They'd taken down the guards too quickly for him to put it in blood and a quick glance showed burrs and nicks in the weapon from shoddy care. It wasn't that impressive of a weapon to begin with, but the care it was shown made it of little use or interest to Masef. "But this one yet breathes. It's possible we might find some more information, such as where these vultures have Brand's possessions, where his body lays and who specifically led the attack on him. If he know such things." Masef seemed calm about the whole thing, eerily in control as he ticked off the things they might eke out of the man he was standing over. Of course, there was the impulse to simply slit a throat and be done with it, but they could always slit a throat now or later. If carefree Masef was like this, it was perhaps a sign of just how far Harold had gone when he or one of his minions decided that Brand of the Nightwood deserved anything but a life of peace after doing so much for the local area. It'd pained him to see Bosfyrd this...gray. Dulled, oppressed. He wasn't entirely pleased to see all his siblings; step in as he might to save the drow from an attack on the flank, Masef was not entirely pleased to see a kinslayer back among them. It was Kazahk all over again; he walked in, started a fight and everyone else wound up dealing with the inevitable. Where they were already planning to do something, it might have gone off more silently, without rousing the entire town -- already some peeked through the windows of the tavern, saw the damage, and scurried away and Masef didn't blame them. They were not going to be alone here much longer. A quick check of the guards and their possessions yielded coin, dice, alcohol. But before they could do anything else, they had to see the old man properly buried. "Emma," Masef called out, "Leave here screaming. Tear your dress a bit. It was a disagreement over dice, and we tried to stop you from fleeing. You barely escaped." he dropped a few on the floor, along with coins and cups to make it realistic, "we certainly weren't welcome here. Don't lie about who we were." He was doing her a favor, in a sense -- she was surely a witness and they'd probably harm her if they thought she was at all friendly to the people that did this to local guards and holding back. Qazar made a noise of disgust, in his head, while noting that Masef was so soft-hearted that he'd care for some peasant girl that was unimportant in the scheme of things. Pious bleating and would-be heroism. Shut up, old fiend. "This one, we take with us." He toed the inert form of the guard he'd kicked with the same boot that did the kicking, his eyes gleaming darkly. That made Qazar cackle. It made Masef frown.

The ale in Kazahk’s hand went bottoms up, and the tavern exploded in action. He never did take up the old man’s teachings of patience and planning. No, Kazahk forever sought to be the impetus of a situation, to act rather than react. There were many memories of game being startled by an impatient dark elf letting loose shot after shot towards the beast as is scampered away, and Brand never could get the rascal to sit still and fish upon a bank. Those were the few thoughts that rang true to him when he headbutted the guardsmen, figuring this was the only course he knew how to follow, and so he must run it true to it’s end. After he shouted his greeting he saw a cask of the sureshot elf’s brandy knocked a guard out cold, then a shadow of movement before a yelp of pain came from his flank as he spotted Masef’s work. His attention turned that way nearly made him miss the rope dart that gave Sigur, who name was shouted by kin Kazahk could not still name, a chance that was oh so easy to take. Kazahk took his last gulps as he heard Varzhul dispatch a guard with little fanfare. He’d hoped a man with such a steed could defend himself, and he was right. The ale still hung at his lips as the last few seconds of bloodshed died down. Ah, the dirty looks Kazahk got in his lifetime, none were so succulent than those he was closest with. He sipped his stolen ale with a wink in his eye as Sigur boorish visage gave him a look of displeasure, which to Kazahk was humorous considering he just cleaved a man in two, then finished off two of his fellows. Being a kinslayer, he knew there would be little he could say to change their hearts toward him, or to plead with them that he had attempted to right his wrong in the years of absence. Perhaps this is why he acted so brashly, as to prove himself loyal to Nightwood through action. His eagerness most likely came off as suspicious valor, but unless Kazahk dropped to his knees and asked Sigur to lop his head off if he thought the drow sought misfortune on the family, there was little Kazahk could do to change this motif. He slammed down his drink when Sigur's laughing died down, and Masef spoke up, gathering his cloak from the floor and giving a wink toward Quinn as he did so. Just like old times, the drow was forcing hands to be played, and he would have been lying if he didn’t say he enjoyed it. Still, the whisper of regret and shame hung deep in his mind waiting to be dealt with, for Tagerdson’s memory was still strong for his kin, and Brand’s death even stronger. He shook his head almost unperceptively to rid himself of such thoughts at the moment; there would be a time for grieving and repentance, but not now. Long drow strides put him at the unconscious guard at Masef’s feet in four swagger filled paces. There was a palpable tension as he looked down at Masef, before he bent down and grabbed the guards collar and belt with a short huff, stood the unfortunate man up and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of produce. Kazahk gave a wicked grin, the silver tooth catching the flickering lantern just enough to make it known. “Where to now?”

Lysandra finished re-coiling her weapon and tucking it back under her sleeves as Sigur unceremoniously made short work of the last two standing bandits. The blood from his first kill was already pooling about, soaking into the floorboards of the tavern to forever leave a stain as remembrance of what they had done here. She had hoped that the situation wouldn't have reached this point but Kazahk had forced the issue and had left everyone with little choice in the matter. Still, it was unnerving how calm they could all be in the wake of the situation contrast perfectly with Emma, who seemed paralyze with fear and utter shock at the violence that had exploded before her eyes. Lysandra pitted the woman for being so weak, so fragile to the ways of the world that she was practically helpless. But she also envied her greatly. Emma was a woman who hadn't experienced the dark side of their lives first hand and thus still had a semblance of innocence about her. She had grownup with a family that actually loved her and with a sense of belonging; Lysandra, on the other hand, had been raised by a stranger, albeit a kind hearted one, and a group of misfits and misfortunates alike. Her life would never amount to that of Emma's, no matter how many riches Lysandra sunk her greedy fingers into. "Leave here screaming. Tear your dress a bit. It was a disagreement over dice, and we tried to stop you from fleeing. You barely escaped." Catching on to Masef's line of thought, Lysandra stepped forward producing a knife from somewhere inside her cleavage and tore the woman's dress in several places. Emma only seemed mildly aware of what was happening around her but she nodded her understanding, nevertheless. "I'm sorry about the tavern." Lysandra apologized as she ran a hand through the woman's hair, giving her a more disheveled appearance in order to pull off the ruse. "I promise to pay you for all damages when I return." If the woman understood her, she didn't acknowledge it. Perhaps it was out of impulse to console the female in some manner or it was just that she could see so much of herself in the woman, regardless, Lysandry's wrapped her arms around Emma in a tight embrace before pushing her towards the entrance of the tavern. “Where to now?” "The old hunting cabin." Lysandra offered turning back to regard her brothers. "It still lays intact…most of it, anyways" Last time she had laid eyes on the cabin, two days ago, it was still standing although weathered and worn from years of neglect. It could serve as a perfect place for them to hide and lay low for the time being until a better plan could be formed. Strategically nestled deep in the woods not only a short distanced from Bosfyrd but also from Brand's home. As children they used to utilize the cabin as almost an outpost when spending more than a day out in the woods hunting for game. The cabin was their best and only answer at the moment.

The fight was over quickly, if it could be called a fight after all. Brand's children made short work of their adversaries and even left one yet alive for questioning. We would make a very effective team of brigands... was the dawning thought that left a wry frown on Quinn's clean shaven face. One thing they all had in common was that their adoptive father had instilled in all of them a sense of duty and purpose to uphold the greater good. Well most of us, anyway. The elf returned Kazahk's wink with a wary stare, never letting the drow out of his sight while the others discussed their next move. While the others talked, Quinn sheathed his sword and threw on his cloak, clasping the garment on at his right shoulder. Next came the weapon harness, its familiar weight and fit brought the elf a small sense of comfort. Finally, the archer crossed the room and produced a coil of hempen rope. Wordlessly, he bound the last remaining guard's wrists and ankles together, though he left enough room for the man to stumble. Quinn gave the knots a couple sharp test pulls to assess their strength then looked up to his siblings. "I agree with Lys," he began, finally breaking his silence. "The cabin would make an ideal rallying point. Father and I had a small supply cache concealed in the stump behind the house. However," Quinn paused for a second to stand up to his full height and regard his siblings face to face. "We should avoid traveling in one whole group. Perhaps go in varying directions to throw off any tails before doubling back. Then there's this one. Who gets to carry the drunkard?" All the while, the elf's quick eyes scanned his brothers and sister, weighing their chances. They all knew Brand's methods of becoming and staying concealed. However that was before they had participated in a tavern brawl as a group. Their next move would require delicate precision.

The fight had been shorter than Kazahk’s temper; the guards had nary a chance and they’d bitten off far more than they’d ever been able to chew. It had gone from simple bar brawl to Sigur deciding to carve apart the men with his ridiculously sized blade, which Varzhul would never be in a rush to meet in battle. While Varzhul was fast, skilled and seamless with the blade, it would be a tough fight to overcome that amount of raw, brute strength especially with a blade that large being swung. He almost sighed with disappointment at the first sign of blood being spilt, now he felt silly for having not gutted the fool that had come at him with the sword. A wry smile briefly flittered across his face as the guard cried out for who they are and Sigur sent a melodramatic yet mildly amusing reply to the man. His somewhat nonchalant comment after a hearty laugh that broke the melancholic silence of the room, caused a pang of worry in his mind as the half-orc seemed to be taking it somewhat less seriously then he should be. He watched silently, emotionlessly as Masef set about providing for the tavern wench’s escape from the subsequent wroth that would fall upon the town after this incident. A brawl would’ve raised few eyebrows but a slaughter would be raising alarms all along the land; a reinforcing of the guard would be inevitable and as such in order to recover Brand’s body, time would surely be of the essence. He nodded as Masef suggested they take the guard with them, as he readied himself to reply, Kazahk interrupted before he had the chance. He shifted his gaze towards to the somewhat out-of-place drow, he’d been the cause of this whole violent affair, not that they necessarily would’ve fought without him but the drow had gone and forced the issue. Not to mention that after starting it he’d done little else but drink, abandoning his step-brother like a coward, he’d merely been entertained by the whole affair while endangering them all; albeit not a great amount of danger. None of the emotions played a hint across his face, instead burying them under a mountain of willpower and emotional guards built up over a lifetime of emotional management. His presence here was a wildcard of unimaginable proportions; he was unpredictable, violent and most of all a kinslayer. He alone of the brood had spilt the blood of a fellow brood member and it’s something he would ever really be forgiven for, not even if he slew every kingsman involved in the death of Brand; not that Varzhul would allow him to do that, his own blades cried out for blood and they would be sated. He refrained from immediately answering Kazahk’s query, he wanted to gauge the reaction of the room to the drow’s presence even though he knew well what they had to do. When Lysandra suggested the use of the hunting cabin and Quinn agreed with her, Varzhul was quick to add his own approval, by saying “We definitely need to lie low after this bloodbath. Although we should strike fast to recover father’s body before reinforcements arrive which will surely occur. I can take the guard with me, Torst, my warhorse, can easily take the extra weight of him; it’ll be easier than any of you carrying him through the forest now.”

Blood, death, chaos. Sometimes it bothered how quickly it came to him. How easily he could rectify ending a life, no matter how horrid and disgusting that life may be. But in his own eyes he was a monster slayer, and monsters came in all shapes and sizes. At least that was what he told to allow himself to sleep at night. As his laughter faded away as his siblings got down to more serious business, he silently cleaned his blade. It was a form of meditative practice: calming the mind through battle through some sort of regimental task. Brand had taught him during his tutelage to stretch, it was something simple that he used to calm himself yet risk his baser instincts taking over and slipping into a bloodrage. As he aged stretching became cleaning his blade as it seemed to become tainted more and more. He listened as he brought the rag across the cool metal wiping away the blemishes and making it shine once more. Your blade is an extension of yourself. Treat it well and it shall treat you as a king. Another quip from adoptive father, it seemed the more engrossed he got into the affairs of Bosfryd the more his ghost would never let him go. He listened as a plan was formed. It made sense to Sigur; Brand's old cabin was secluded and well off the beaten path, and more importantly since his death nobody was suspect ghosts of the past to haunt the wreck. He would of preferred if they had been able to capture one of Harold's officers. The information would of been more reliable and instead they would have to go by extend word and mouth. Though information could still be mined from them, patrol locations, weapon caches, and other useful kernels of information. It all depend on how hard they pushed their captives, how many lines they were willing to cross. Sigur knew he was willing to cross such lines in the name of justice, but he had his doubts with some. And if things were to transpire how he imagined they would, then that may be a problem further down the line. But he did not worry himself with such idle thoughts at the current time and place. If an issue would arise they would address it when it came. His eyes drifted over to Kazahk in silence. The last time Sigur had seen the drow was before his kin-slaying escapades, a fact that he only learned about later in letters sent to him by Brand. Brand always felt the need to send him a letter when he knew that Sigur would be stationed in one city for awhile. To retell how his siblings were and how the Nightwood was faring. At the beginning Sigur did not reply but Brand kept on sending the messages and eventually Sigur softened and sent replies. Brand knew him better than most people alive or dead, and Brand knew how much underneath his intimidating exterior he cared for his siblings, for the people he left behind. The last reply Brand had sent said that he was taking up serious matters with William and that the kingdom would change soon enough. If only Sigur knew what he meant, if he only he could of warned him. Though in his heart he knew he could of never convinced Brand, as gentle and kind as he could be; he was a stern one when it came to his sense of justice. He understand why those around him distrusted Kazahk in the way they did. What they must of seen was in no way comparison of what words could describe. And he knew of the own deep cultural superstitions about the ashen colored people, he himself had experienced the so called "Drow treachery" as it were. But to taint his own brother with the image of Ysar, that was unfair to him. Judgement was to be unscrupulous, untainted by personal views. But his time traveling the world had shown him that maybe it was best to forgive while they were still alive, how many men would be alive if he allowed them mercy, how many would of done better things? And to be truthful they needed Kazahk as much as anyone else. He was an experienced fighter and could handle most situations thrown at him. Was that the pragmatic outlook yes, but in violence and retribution everyone is cutthroats at the end of the blood red line. Even though Sigur was considering giving him a chance, it did not atone for what he had done. To kill a brother in cold blood, he would either prove his worth again to the family, or he would die forever known as the kinslayer. It was choice that Sigur could help facilitate but in no way could he make the choice easy for him. Evidently it seemed that they had come to a decision and for the first time since the combat Sigur spoke. " Aye, so we all had off into the woods." He then walked over behind the bar and leaned down and found a lose floorboard. He then pulled up a heavy stone reveling a small hiding hole known only to Old Dunstan and his closest friends. Emma would surely find it there later. Sigur slowly produced something from his coin purse. Out came shining heavy coins, the sort that most people only dreamed of witnessing in a lifetime. They were legal tender of the Southern Traders and henceforth would be excepted almost anywhere as fair tender for their value. The inquisitional eye might wonder how Sigur acquired such coin and if asked he only replay that the price of blood was a high one indeed. Sigur spoke calmly to the ghosts that he felt in the room. "Thank you Dunstan for the hospitality you had always shown our family. May Gruumsh guide you on your immortal journey, and may this coin resolve debts that can never be repayed." Slowly he dropped the coins into the hole as priest would bless a grave before recovering it to be found again at a later date. He arose most solemnly juxtaposing the terrible warrior that stood in his place moments before. "Remember go silent, leave no trace, and may the trees guide you home."

Brand trained his brood well; so when the siblings decided to slip out from the Scuffed Boots without getting caught, they did it by scattering, some grabbing horses, others drawing attention and then shaking their tales. Once they made it past Bosfyrd proper and into the meadows and farmsteads, it was easy work to lose the pursuit. But Brand's brood wasn't interested in merely escaping. They exacted a bloody toll on their path to revenge. By the time they'd retrieved all their weapons and equipment, those that had ditched them to get into town unnoticed, a few of the local guardsmen had sprouted feathers the hard way -- longbow marksmanship was a calling card of Brand's; the Vendish were fond of the bow, but Brand, in his youth, had been a many times over champion archer and many of his adopted children were apt pupils themselves. The war had begun in the wheat fields and the flowery meadows, in the tall grass and along the Fool's Lake, with men and women who disappeared into the wilds like faeries and struck their pursuers with expertly placed arrows and the occasional slashed throat. The pursuit, after a few such casualties, slowed down considerably. They were used to much easier prey, and the locals were all too gleeful in telling the tall tales -- Emma named names, and for every named name, there was a story told -- some, such as Sigur's and Kazakh's, were downright terrifying, but others painted an unpleasant picture for the mercenaries. The villagers, perhaps, relished the revenge of telling the local garrison, bandits and bullies, just who they were actually up against. By the time it was over, the day was receding, and Masef was bone-weary from the fighting and the movement; he was even more elusive than in the old days, as the sands of his chosen environment were dangerous and constant awareness of visibility and the ability to hide in barren terrain put him in good stead here. His throat was parched, but that was not a new sensation to him, nor was the wrung-out feeling. The hunting cabin looked like it had seen better days with little to offer in the way of shelter to a normal person, but to Brand's brood, it looked like a more than comfortable place. It also occupied good terrain -- a strategic view of the area, well-hidden. There were supplies there that managed to weather the vagaries of time and climate. He was one of the last to arrive, but the first question on Masef's lips were, "So, has our new friend awakened yet?"