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[center][i]Towering Giant, Survival of the Fittest[/i][/center]
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And with that, the battle had quelled as swiftly as they arrived. The giant felt relieved, not more bloodshed had to daunt on his blade and he could cast away worry if only but momentarily. Putting his axe away, Hafrbjǫrn eyes trailed to the source of the voice that called upon his attention. Indeed, he needn't speak on the behalf of that he merely ran an errand for a man needing protection. Garrett would secure levity in such conversation, as for this giant he would remain wordless. Scanning however, those whom wore naught protection over their skulls and adorn only trinkets instead of steal caught set giants attention. They were young, much younger than what Hafrbjǫrn was accustomed to travel with. Though perhaps their talent flourished in their respective areas, like the seeds in summer's time, some of these had still hadn't shed the green of their eyes. Among such inexperience there underlay a certainty of prowess. After witnessing what course this battle took he could not question their ability, however, he could question coordination. Some were injured, and another he thought he witnessing in pain. Yet no discernible injury could be demonstrated from where he stood. They gowned a peculiar brand on their arms, Blood Rose Irregulars. That staved away some sense of curiosity, they were warrior of their own caliber, perhaps this ambush was something they themselves could not anticipate. Hafrbjǫrn counted himself lucky, getting captured by bandits was mayhaps the most fortunate event the could've come across to. If anything, he could've been another number in the pile of corpses on the way here. 

He stepped away, not a word spoken and began to see if anything of worth could be scavenged from the bodies of these creatures. The men were already at the task, but the spoils would belong to their guild if they caught whiff of their worth, if so, Hafrbjǫrn would be left with only the lingering sense of battle, with is oh so faint and fragile. And would soon leave him the next camp they make. The armor these serpent wore were nothing you'd take privy to during the time, yet craftsmanship was at a league of its own. They facilitated movement without obstructing the bent of the joints, a lather sturdy enough to be worn under the chain mail, tightening muscle enough to not restrict the bends and more over with the quality of steel they could defend efficiently to the sharpest of blade for more a duration than many other armors. Pacing his hand on their pockets, nothing of interest on this one. It held several flasks, he believed that perhaps this was the poison that they doused the tips of their arrows with. Or even the blades. 

Hafrbjǫrn couldn't shake off this feeling that these ruins were home to creature of an unknown. The bandits were wholly unaware of their demise upon forming camp on these lands. Meaning, they did not privy the thought of these creature being around. That arises the question, however. Where do they spawn from? Hafrbjǫrn absentmindedly thought as he proceeded to the next body, this one being the one with the knife pierced at its neck. Ah, what accuracy, this was from that odd one that seemed to be troubled by something. Hafrbjǫrn did not proceed the thought, it was not his place and more over not something he had much interest in furthering, yet a lingering worry boiled at the peak of his thought. What would that symbolize? Did these Guild Mate-- Something caught his interest, a blade... Such wonderful craftsmanship! Although the giant's mien would not shift from its deadpan stare, he carefully visualized each individual detail from the sword, at time lifting it above his head and noting the temper from it, was this really some beast's choice? If it was such a waste! Hafrbjǫrn mayhaps should write the details he witnesses here, as to utilize at his forge later.