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.

[i]tak tak tak thump[/i]

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. [b]“Yes?”[/b]

The fence seemed flustered, mostly likely from the pace he had put himself through running up from the street up to the attic. 
[b]“They’re here. An elf, an orcish fellow and a dark-skinned lad, though I can’t be sure about the [i]other[/i] 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.”[/b]

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. 

[i]ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk[/i]

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. [b]“Tavern’s [i]closed[/i] sootskin. Remove yourself!”[/b]

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.

[b]“Welcome Home!”[/b] was all he could say, and he meant it.