[hr][hr][h2][center][color=00aeef]Sigemund, "Brith-Eater"[/color][/center][/h2] [hr][hr] Sigemund stood at the end of the dock, watching the guardsmen enter the Dreamer’s Draugr. They had dumped any illicit materials and matched their manifest properly to maintain the illusory identity. There was a general acknowledgement that they were not criminals in this territory, but the control of this Company that they had chosen to pursue hope with needed to be acknowledged. By all means when he had ransacked the now skinless Cleric, that had served well enough as a meal for Sigemund’s sons and daughters, he had taken on the debt. The deception was only partial. “Farmoon,” Sigemund’s scribe and skald, Kanaaq, spoke up, “Do you need me to read the letter to you again?” Silence hung in the air. Should he pretend to be literate in these parts? He had all but memorized the letter. He did want it read to him again, for clarity, but he could go without it. “Tootega, thoughts? I need my daughter’s advice on the matter. Literate or nay?” The brown haired woman, perhaps seventeen? Certainly the youngest of the six travelers. She looked like her father, though with fewer battle scars. She was wearing a wolf pelt, rather than the conspicuous brith pelt that her father preferred. “Worst I figure is I ask a stranger to read a document to me. I’ve never been quick to be embarrassed.” “We’re dealing something of a scale that will demand reading, Father. We can’t have you taking Kanaaq from us and all across the countryside at the moment. Especially when we may still have guardsmen to tend to while you are making business. Be illiterate as you are today.” She was watching the crowd while she spoke. The only individual to catch her eye in any particular manner was a snow-white Brith woman moving at first aimlessly then with purpose along the docks. She nudged her father, nodding in that direction. Kanaaq followed their glances and chuckled amiably. “Looks as though we cannot avoid them even here, Tekkeson. What do you figure our approach is? I can send Yutu and Amaruq after her if you want her furs. Or Anne. She hasn’t had practice shooting since before we changed sails.” Kanaaq was already writing poetry in the back of his head. Something simple and catchy perhaps? Dedicate the first four half-lines to describing the prey, the third line to the city itself, and the fourth line to the warrior. The fifth line would describe the kill, with the sixth and seventh being dedicated to the Hamasfolks’ new glory from the kill on foreign territory. “No. We need to keep our heads about. No killing brithfolk unless we need to here. Not like old-home. Not like nights deep in Skokie’s alleys. Keep Anne stationed here, with Yutu and Amaruq scouting deeper into the city. Have them check the markets and ensure that we have enough supply to return home within the month if we need to. Or if we need to sail the length of the coast. Have them keep busy. Tootega, you take Kanaaq and make sure we haven’t forgotten any writwork. Be hermits. I’ll be back shortly, I’m sure. I can’t imagine this meeting will go poorly.” Kanaaq was disappointed. Tootega looked forward to the management time. Watching the Dreamer’s Draugr would be a simple enough task. “Hail, father.” She nodded her head. She beckoned for Kanaaq to follow, and called out to Anne and Yutu and Amaruq who were standing several feet away telling war stories that they had all heard a dozen times, with new embellishments this time to add spice to it all. “Kanaaq, wait a moment.” The skald waited, walking close. Sigemund leaned in, producing the letter that he had mostly memorized by recitation. “You’re certain I am Elric Farmoon? Not Elric Frostspoon or some other similar piece? The characters shift and linger. I know not how you can read it so well.” “Yes. Elric Frostmoon.” Kanaaq clapped Sigemund on the shoulder. “Blessings of the Wyrkin on you, Hama. I fear you actually are cursed some days. I promise to get you reading before I turn white in the hair. Go for glory.” Sigemund nodded. His confidence had gone unsteady for a moment at the mention of a potential curse, before he shook it off and began at a brisk walk. He watched for drunkards and loud-folk, or alcohol of some kind. The indicators of a drink house were simple enough and he knew them easily. Several old meadhalls had burnt at his hand. One particularly rage-filled night had given him the thought to tie the local brith together in the center of one such meadhall, and to light it as he left. The fire and smoke were visible from quite some distance. He was still satisfied looking back at the memory. What did catch his attention was the scuffle between the sword-wielding man and some other unarmed fool. Perhaps it was a member of the authorities? Perhaps it was a ruffian? He knew not. He watched a moment, as the situation developed, before shrugging it away. He fingered the egu feathers in his hair while he pushed open the door with a sizable... [i]KA—FRUMPH[/i]... The wind that followed him in kicked dust, and gently disrupted an array of cards that had been neatly arrayed by one of the gamblers. He had made a point of leaving his left hand on Hrunting’s pommel, as a warning to the eyes that he drew. In two steps he had put himself roughly central to the lower floor. He assessed his surroundings, before recognizing a brith. The white one from earlier, perhaps? With a tiefling? Two dreadful specimens. They were the only a handful in the room that looked interesting, however. They were isolated. The table was empty otherwise. No one else was associating with them. He took a moment to consider the fact that he was supposed to be a Brith, before groaning and stomping towards the table. He grabbed one of the chairs at the table, and slammed it back several inches. He said nothing for a half second as he sat. When he settled his appearance became gravely apparent. His shoulders were draped primarily in a pelt of some kind. It was unclear at first what it was. A moment would find the face of a brith on the rightmost shoulder of the cloak. It had been stuffed, creating a cruel mockery of one of the cat-folks in a fit of rage. The fur itself looked supple, clean, and treated. [b]“[color=00aeef]Brithbitch, Liege Tiefling. Are we all in waiting for a Tali Riverend?[/color]”[/b] The man’s lips curled back like a snarling dog’s. Was it a smile? A grimace? Something between? Most of his head was shaved close. The bangs, sides of his head, and back were left long. The sides and back were braided. He had feathers in his braids. His beard looked unkempt and oily. [b]”[color=00aeef]I am Elric Farmoon. I appreciate this opportunity for us to all know each other.[/color]”[/b] [hr][hr] [center][i] Directly Involved: Sigemund, Dreamer's Draugr Crew, Vekyzz, Kjellfrid[/i][/center]