The Blackbird stepped heavily through the shrouded forest. The light of the noonday sun, choked back by clouds, did nothing to dissipate the heavy cover of fog. Hraf furrowed his brow, as he concentrated on the landmarks that had been described to him. He wasn't a woodsman, not even close, and trying to track down an inconspicuous location was an arduous enough task without the impenetrable haze of Falkreath. Though the weather was cold enough to bite, sweat beaded on his forehead from concentration. While he didn't consider himself urbane, Hraf was most certainly not in his element, stomping through the wilderness. He stopped, doffed his helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow, and the continued on with the steel helm tucked under his arm.

Hraf continued to plod through the forest, quietly cursing all the while. How the hell did he end up here? Tripping over roots and getting slapped in the face by tree branches in the middle of the gods-damned continent. Imperial patrols of the coastal seas had been tight for the last eight months, and he could barely leave port without catching sight of red sails. Every day the coves and caves he was used to hiding and stashing treasure in were raided and collapsed. The ground was shrinking under his feet, and he was burning through his "savings" faster than he could replenish them. This was his last-ditch effort. The Thieve's Guild in Skyrim, formerly a joke, seemed to have reassumed control of the major holds. Hraf wanted business with them, but to gain a foothold in Riften, he would need capital. Thus, the foolhardy treasure hunt with a bunch of lunatics.

A loose root caught Blackbird's boot and sent him sprawling onto his belly. Spewing obscenities, he struggled back onto his feet, spitting out grass and leaf litter. He was surefooted on the deck of a ship, where usually nothing was reaching out to trip him, but that meant nothing in this forsaken forest. The armor didn't help; his armored boots made his footing even more unsteady, and the other armor such as his maille and bracers distorted his center of gravity. This treasure had damn well better be worth it to suffer this indignity.

Despite the rage boiling in his gut, Blackbird conjured up and expression of suave indifference as his destination came into sight. He didn't spot the crypt, per say, as much as the crowd gathered around it. It seemed that his tromping blindly through the gloom and doom of Falkreath had cost him some time, and was (if his counting was correct) the last to arrive. It was of little importance. Assuming his usual posture of unshakable confidence, Hraf affixed his customary sleazy, sly grin to his face, and surveyed the party as he approached. Each one he gave a quick, visual shakedown; his face relaxed and casual, yet his eyes cold and hard, like dark pits in his face.

"Gentlemen," He spoke, voice clear and deep, his Nord accent tinted by the port dialects of dozens of cities, "Ladies... Forgive my tardiness. We agreed to meet at noon, and yet I can scarcely see the sun." Deciding to ramble, he paced through the middle of their gathering. "The further north one travels, the clearer the skies. At night, there are so many stars, and they read clearer than any map a mortal hand could draw..." He trailed off, staring wistfully in no particular direction for dramatic effect. Snapping his attention back to the group, he affixed his helmet and said, "I digress. Shall we begin spelunking?"