While they were filed out into the spacious courtyard of Meir Thorvale, Brynn's mind could care a shit about the jabs given to him by the guards right in his gut, where it hurt the most even after being force-fed healing potions to keep him alive. Funny thing, keeping a man alive so you could kill him later. But above all else, his mind went to the faces of his old crew, and how he'd kill each of them. He wouldn't like it, no, but it was only fair payment. When the backs of his knees were smacked with a staff to force him down, he swore under his breath. That was enough to bring him to the present, but Count Fleuren's nasally whining fell on deaf ears. It was more of the same, pompous nobles talking of this and that. What brought him back to the present was when a wide-eyed lad ran as if Hircine's beasts were at his heels. When he screamed of bandits, Brynn's eyes narrowed. He knew Hvitserk wouldn't be above torching this little hamlet if he heard that Blood-Red Brynn was in it.

As he heard the sound of hooves, he was ready to run as fast as he could with his ankles shackled, to kill as many of the fuckers as he could with his hands shackled. And to die. Because being shackled while two dozen hard killers are after you on horseback are shit odds. He rolled his shoulders but was met with a wee bit of surprise when he recognized none of the riders. No Big Jan among them, no Blacktoe, none of Two-Shafts' one in a million shots had split his bollocks in two yet. No, these men were different men. Uniformed men. Men just like him but in noble colors. This whirlwind of death rolled through the hamlet of Meir Thorvale killing everyone and burning everything. Brynn would have laughed at the sight of the guards who'd beaten him when they weren't shoving healing potions in his face being cut down if it wasn't the fact that he was on the other side of these marauders' blades.

As the show of death and destruction that left Meir Thorvale a charred husk of its former quaint coziness winded down, the leader of this lot spewed threats and promises in the assembled prisoners' ears. To be honest, Brynn felt a wave of relief when he knew he'd made it through that ordeal without getting a blade to the neck. Not only that, but it was only back to the same old thing he was used to doing; taking the odd bloody job for coin. As they were all unshackled, Brynn stood and rubbed his wrists, red and near bleeding. The first one to speak was a man bigger than him that he knew for an Eastern Reachman by his tattoos and the telltale up-and-down accent. The next to speak was the fire-haired girl, he had to keep his bitter laughter inside himself, “Then get your sword in the jail and kill the fucker that's offended you. Otherwise, keep it to yourself and I'll be counting out my share of the-”

He stopped in his tracks with his mouth formed half-way around the word for the fat sack of money now dangling from the tusked giant's belt. His lips curled upwards with contempt at the pig-nose's bold show of just how strong and dominant he was. He now knew this was a pack, just like his old crew. And he'd be damned if he'd go by this pig-nose's say-so. He looked the beast in his eyes and turned around, walked away to get his knives.
 
They set to meandering towards the jail to get their precious belongings from the chests the guards had stuffed them in. No doubt that before they were laying in a pool of each others' blood, the guards were playing a game of dice to divvy up all their belongings between them. He took a mace from a dead guard's still-warm hand and broke open the chest that held his belongings. He'd found his knives, his boots, his shirt, his pants. But not his hat. He liked that damned hat, took it from a Stormcloak one night when they went through their camp slitting throats and setting fires. “Gods damned greedy bastards, taking a man's belongings.” He said, half in jest, smiling a wicked smile at one of the others. A dark-skinned man who'd just finished buckling his sword-belt. Had a pretty sword on that belt too.

He'd already sprinted half-way through the emotions one feels when they lose something close to them, but as the rest of them went out to meet at the road out of town, Brynn spotted a bloodied guard sitting against an overturned table. His blood was leaking out of him and he had an arrow in his gut. More importantly, he had a very familiar hat on his head. He looked about the room to watch the rest of his newfound companions leave. Then he walked over to the man, looking him in the eyes. “You want your hat back, you bloody fucking outlaw? Take it.” And the guard reached up and weakly threw it on the ground. “Fetch!” And he laughed until it devolved into weak coughs.

Perhaps he thought of it as one last act of manly defiance in the face of death. Brynn just shook his head. He thought of it as rude as all the hells. “Why'd you have to do that?” Brynn hiked up the legs of his trousers to make it easier to squat. “Fetch, eh? I'm a dog?” Brynn chuckled, and patted the man on the cheek like a dear friend.

“Go fuck that big green giant, you and that other Reachman, hill-filth.”

“Rather not. And this is for the hat.” And easy enough like he was poking a finger, the blade of his smaller knife went in and out of the base of the man's neck, lazy-slow, with the same care of a bored man shrugging. With that, he scooped up his hat and put it on his head, leaving the guard to choke on his own blood on his lonesome. When he met with the others, he stood with hands on hips and a smile.

“Well, we getting to names? Figure we'd at least get to names if we're to be doing a job big as this one.” He shrugged, “Been on jobs where it's all about the money and no one wanted to work together. How's it? We're all more or less nice enough folk, eh?” He looked to the mousy lad and then the fiery woman with a sense of justice big enough to let her say things but not do things, he guessed, “Eh?”

When the Orc bloated up as big as he was with pithy remarks let one escape him, he chuckled, “And why are you here, big lad? Heard tell from the guards you punched someone you shouldn't. Didn't get a lot of telling-to's and open-hands to the back of the head as a child?” Something about the big Orc's sheer size made him angry. Fucker was too big for his own good. Reminded him of the boys back in the village tossing rocks and calling him Knife-Ear Brynn because of the points in his ears.