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. [b]“Where to now?”[/b]