"The hunters are gathering inside the castle," The captain of the guard said, visibly unsettled by the mask of the man, and his bearing in general. He just gave them all the creeps," But there is no need for threats. we are all friends here, comrades under the same fighting banner. For the moment anyway. Any and all help is welcome."

Jonathan sneered beneath his mask," Whatever. I do not like hunting in a pack. That's for dogs and wolves. I am neither. But no matter. Brother," He snarled that last word as if it were an insult. 

"Oi," One of the other men growled, standing, easily two feet taller than Jonathan was himself," No need to be insulting. The man was offering you the proverbial olive basket and you spat on it, like a lowly cur. You shouldn't be entering this castle, not with the manners that the likes of you has, no sir."

Jonathan looked up at the man, unimpressed," I insult and threaten whomever I like, dog, and if you don't like it, you are fully encouraged to place a note in the complaint box of the Chapel of Brynelm."

"Cunt," The man growled and his fist moved. Too slow, in Jonathan's opinion. Clenching up, his whole arm moving back for a powerful punch thrown. but again, too slow. His whole body told Jonathan where the punch was going to land before it was even thrown. He waited until the last minute, even looking away at the other guards and winking before his own body moved into counter the attack. His right arm crossed over to connect with the man's own fist. The whole yard sounded with crack of both fists connecting. Surprisingly, it was accompanied with another sound, like the sound of a sword being drawn, bones and meat being sliced and a scream of pain as the giant of a man tumbled to the ground, clutching his eviscerated, bloody hand to his chest.

Jonathan sheathed the three blades back into their hiding place in his gauntlet before any of the dimwitted soldiers had a chance to see it.

"You fucking cunt! You goddamn son of a whore!" The man half-bellowed, half-cried.

"You shouldn't insult whores like that, brother," Jonathan said in a calm voice, licking the blood from his knuckles and spitting it out," They will be the only manner of satisfying yourself now that your hand is out of order."

The rest of the guards drew their weapons after a moment of stunned silence, and advanced on the former warlock, but their captain called them to a halt.

"But sir," One of the men said in an annoyingly nasal voice," He used magic there. Knuckles ain't supposed to do what his did just there."

"Not magic, no," Jonathan growled," Simple tricks, and if that is what your men think is magic nowadays," He smiled, passing the reins of his horse to the Captain," I don't know if I should be worried or satisfied with the state of the realm," He grinned underneath his mask, a gruesome sight," Now, remember, stable, hay, apples, and remember to change his water at least twice a day or he will tell me, and you will be in trouble, are we clear?"

"Yessir."

"Thank you, now where is hall where the others that hunt are gathered."

"Hugo will show you the way sir."

Like he had seen before. Fear. It just needed to be established if he was the kind of fear to run from or fight. Now that that was established, he was confident that the word would spread and unnecessary contact with the people of the town would be limited to the bare necessities of social conduct. That thought pleased him, probably more than Father Grimbold would like, but the old sir would never find out from him.

They moved through the castle, with more stares directed it him, and whispers too. He declined on listening in on these. Idle gossip interested him not. The entered a hall where an assortment of warriors and other fighters were gathered, and the guard stopped.

"Here we are s...."

"Shut up. Go away, and make yourself useful. Jump off a cliff or something," He said, waving his hand to indicate that he cared little of the man did or did not plummet to his death. Annoyingly, a female steward approached him with a tray of cool drinks in her hand.

"May I take your cloa..."

"No. Fuck off."

"May I offer a drin..."

"Yes, I am parched," He took a glass from the tray and, sipping it carefully to make sure that there was no poisons, smiled," Where's the food?"

The confused stewardess pointed to the table where the foods were.

He didn't look back, lifting his mask up and turning towards the table, moving towards it without another word.

"You're welcome," The woman growled indignantly and went over to one of the other guests.