Left alone, finally, when Faruq's story was cut off and he stalked off to make conversation with Cyrendil. Brynn cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked around the room, at Fiona sitting not far from where she'd beaten that man's face in, at Berich's back just before the doors swallowed any sight of him. He took a drink, then another, and then figured [i]fuck it[/i] and quaffed half the big tankard. It would still take some time before this folk warmed up to him, but it would just be a matter of simple gestures and campfire politics. It was the same with any band whose faces were all new to the other. The tavern maid came around and picked up a few of the unattended tankards left behind before speaking to him while she busied herself, “I've seen it before. Folk only stay around while the drink flows. Once it dries up, they move on.”

Brynn snorted, “It's not like that.” Brynn paused, his tankard half-way to his lips before the creeping realization that more than half the folk that followed him over the mountains hated what he was, or what they heard he was, “Mostly. What's it to you, Tavern-Wench?”

“Nothing at all,” She cast a glance at him before returning to her work of wiping the table down, “Road-Scum.”

“Road-Scum?” He felt his face get hot and he almost made to stand, but then found out he was drunk and this was his third tankard, “Road-Scum?” He worked his mouth, his lips forming into mute breaths, recognizing there was a lack of wit.

“Aye, I thought we were calling each other by slurs.” She smiled. “I've seen plenty like you.”

“Plenty, eh?”

“Aye.” She finished. There was no more conversation left in her for him, Brynn could tell.

“Would you get a glass of whiskey for each of those that came in with me.” He took another gulp of ale, “Or those that are still here, anyhow. Two fingers.” [i]Won't cross the mountains in a day, just small steps at a time,[/i] he thought. “In the meantime, this [i]Road-Scum[/i] is getting himself a whore.”

“There's a red-haired one you'd like!” Someone raised his voice from across the room. He noticed a certain slurred lisp to it that he reckoned he knew who it belonged to. Sure enough, it was the man whose face was beaten in moments ago. He stood and the tavern was quiet almost at once. The men dressed in green all stopped playing their games and drinking their ale to turn and look at Brynn. He suddenly felt unwelcome here. “You could take her and that floppy fucking hat out of this town.”

Brynn gave his wolf's grin, though every nerve in him was begging him to run. He felt pushed. He didn't like being pushed. “You, who got their face smashed in, what's your name?”

“It's fuck off.” He pointed, and all the men dressed in green stood, “All of you road-scum grow fat on the strife of the lands punished by war. You pick at the scab like maggots, hanging around the edges. You, that other hill-scum, and that green shit over there. You can come with us to the Lord's fort to be judged fairly, or not.”

“All this just because my friend wouldn't fuck you?” Brynn cocked a brow. “Sit back down, have a drink and then, uh,” and he shook his fist in a jerking motion, “have yourself some fun later, no shame in it.”

The big Breton's face had a creeping shade of red come over his face and he pulled a knife from behind his back, “Kill them!”

The first man that came close to him, he punched out with his tankard in hand and it cracked into the man's teeth. He stood as fast as he could and cursed himself for getting too drunk in a place like this. He felt like he was hit by a bull and the man standing over him looked like one. “You big ugly,” he heaved in a wheezing breath, “great,” the man lifted his boot to stomp Brynn's skull in, “fuck!” and Brynn rolled to his left, grasping up a stool as he stood.

He smashed it across the bull-man's head so hard that he could hear the wood crack. The bull-man paused and Brynn booted him in the stomach and doubled him over. He turned around on an instinct and the entire tavern had erupted into one giant brawl, “Ah, fuck.” He sighed, “We were supposed to lay low!” He said, as he punched a green-clothed bastard in the throat.