Masef couldn't put his finger on his instincts, but he never could and stopped bothering after a while. He knew that something was amiss; he also heard, down the Pilgrim Road, the word of a ranger's last stand. There were no other rangers of renown around here, this far south in Vendland. When the old Harold, Harold the Grey, was king, Brand served legendarily and with distinction when the throne called. He took an honored retirement with the respect, eschewing titles and grants, preferring the humble life. Harold the Green, his son, became Bloody Harold. 

Nonetheless, Masef held against hope that Brand was not the ranger that made the terrible stand that the merchants took down the road some ways. And yet, he steeled himself, even as he spurred himself onward. One day, his inner voice didn't advise, it compelled. Get up there. It perhaps had something to do with promises spoken on his departure, but it suddenly kicked in. And then, eventually, he came across a Vendish merchant, relieved to be leaving the country and explaining that he was gone for good. Too much blood, too much killing. Even a man like Brand couldn't hold against that grim tide. 

Others filtered in and they seemed to be the family, and one man that had to be Loden was looking in his direction, but it was Joren Muttle that nudged him, "In back," he murmured. 

Masef gave a quick nod and paid up for another drink, "Thank you, another dreenk please. Ees goot." He thickened the accent and looked lost, "Wheech way to pees?"

But he hadn't taken a sip of the first. He'd learned something of the intrigues of the Great Whore, Daramalsh, or at least how to keep a low profile in public. The place was a den of rogues, and it was easy to get killed. You learned to blend in such places. What he never would have believed was that Bosfyrd could feel like that. He could feel the eyes on the strangers and the locals alike, an unsettling feeling that palled the room's normally-boisterous crowd. This place was a rabbit, huddling in fear. The mood seeped right into his bones. 

He made his way out to the piss-spot outside and handled that part of it. On the way out, he scoped the way to the office door and used the route he planned out in his mind to get in there without a fuss or much of a stir. 

It was Varrick. Not his favorite brother, but one couldn't choose family, even in a family as unorthodox as Brand's. He let his hand slip off the kindjal, because he'd walked in half expecting a trap. Qazar was practically shouting [i]FOOL![/i] in his skull, but there was a limit to suspicion. 

"Peace, Brother," he reached out to handclasp. It wasn't in them to embrace.

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