It had taken weeks to travel northwards from Meyersport, and Varrick was not one for twiddling his thumbs. He'd had to take the back roads and cut through the forest at times to avoid King Harold's patrols. Fell creatures, once consigned to the darkest corners of the kingdom, now strode in broad daylight wearing the King's colors. Varrick had passed through more than a few burned villages, the mutilated corpses of their denizens laid out for all to see. Which was not to say Varrick feared them - he was just being cautious.

Kicker's barding was wrapped in cloth on the back of Varrick's pack horse, and he wore his green cloak with the hood up. Still, the sword was a bit conspicuous; not that he'd be willing to let it leave his side. Some of his brothers may have traded horses the entire journey to make speed to Bosfyrd, but Kicker was a war horse - not some farmer's beast of burden to be handed off at first convenience. [color=f7941d][b][i]Besides, I'll probably need him soon,[/i][/b][/color] Varrick thought. Baron William may have been slain, but Varrick couldn't shake the feeling that the war was just beginning. 

Varrick patted Kicker's neck, and looked on ahead. There were farmer's paths leading into Bosfyrd, but taking the forest gave him the opportunity to see what he was walking into without anyone else watching him. The sun was still high in the sky when Kicker crested the hill.

[b][color=f7941d]"We're here, boy. Let's see if the old ranger's still around."[/color][/b] The horse rolled an eye and nickered, before continuing its walk.

. . .

Varrick waited until nightfall to enter the town leaving Kicker and the pack horse in the woods. The town's guards were unfamiliar - probably pulled from the rebelling lords' jail cells, if what he'd seen of the army's work was any indication. Nevertheless, they had gotten to work. For fifty yards around, the trees had been cut down leaving only stumps. It looked like they were building a rudimentary palisade. Still, the stumps gave him enough color to make it to the outer buildings, and from there it was easy to slip into the town unharassed.

It was late enough that few people were about, but not so much that a person out walking would seem unusual. Varrick made for the Scuffed Boots. If anyone could tell him more about what was going on, it would be the tavern's owner. Joren Muttle was a good man, and Varrick knew he could trust him. Still, he didn't know about the rest of the village. He took the back entrance. 

[@R31GN][@Naril][@POOHEAD189][@Gunther][@NickTrano][@AirBender]