Bosfyrd, on the Vendish borderlands, was incongruously green and lush. 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. The nearby Fool's Lake reflected back the early morning sun. Further out, one came to the Nightwood, deep and untamed wilderness, a natural place to slip over the border. 

Breaking off from his companions on the last leg into Vendland, Masef did precisely that. The Pilgrim Road was known across kingdoms, but it was really not too terribly impressive to look upon. It was a trail of ancient stone and generations of packed earth, that led down into far off lands, more imagination than anything.  Here, it was a natural hideout for bandits, staking out the road at times, unless flushed out by armed men, often Brand in times past.

The Nightwood was the insect-humming, flowery and green opposite of the water-less desert, but it was equally home to Masef. He scouted Bosfyrd to take note of the defenses. Brand's skills came in handy. It was the rare local that could spot one of Brand's Brood even before fully trained. Masef had years under his belt, in harsher conditions. 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. William of Barkstead had men at arms that were scrupulously disciplined, locals that were of the village. These were swaggering types that viewed the villages with suspicion and fear, hands on weapons. He'd found where the bandits had gone, always lured by the easier coin. Taking bribes was easier than waylaying merchants.

Easier then, to slip in between a couple of buildings and look inconspicuous, moving through carefully to avoid the looks of the new guards. 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. He looked the part of another outlander in the crossroads town. 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. He would have to find that out. 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 danger. It even warned against the cider, given by one of the serving girls that recognized one of Brand's, without bothering about payment. Masef ignored the old Bastard; he knew Bosfyrd's natives.

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 pick up the trail of any other siblings, if he were lucky.

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