Bosfyrd, on the Vendish borderlands, was incongruously green and lush. The leaves were a lovely shade of spring green on the trees, old oaks that shot up between the old houses with their thatched roof. It was a town whose meadows provided grazing for animals tended to by the herders. The nearby Fool's Lake reflected back the early morning sun. Further out, one came to the Nightwood, deep and untamed wilderness, a natural place to slip over the border.

Breaking off from his companions on the last leg into Vendland, Masef did precisely that. The Pilgrim Road was known across kingdoms, but it was really not too terribly impressive to look upon. It was a trail of ancient stone and generations of packed earth, that led down into far off lands, more imagination than anything. Here, it was a natural hideout for bandits, staking out the road at times, unless flushed out by armed men, often Brand in times past.

The Nightwood was the insect-humming, flowery and green opposite of the water-less desert, but it was equally home to Masef. He scouted Bosfyrd to take note of the defenses. Brand's skills came in handy. It was the rare local that could spot one of Brand's Brood even before fully trained. Masef had years under his belt, in harsher conditions. Whoever these men were, they were not up to the challenge of spotting a ranger moving in his element. He quickly deduced that these men were not as well-armed as they might be, but enough of a threat to avoid as a single man on the road. They wore no insignia, which was different from what he remembered. In the past, there was no permanent garrison in Bosfyrd. William of Barkstead had men at arms that were scrupulously disciplined, locals that were of the village. These were swaggering types that viewed the villages with suspicion and fear, hands on weapons. He'd found where the bandits had gone, always lured by the easier coin. Taking bribes was easier than waylaying merchants.

Easier then, to slip in between a couple of buildings and look inconspicuous, moving through carefully to avoid the looks of the new guards. He assumed the slouching posture of a weary traveler all the way to the Scuffed Boots, a tavern that catered to the traveler and the local alike. He looked the part of another outlander in the crossroads town. The interior was still maintained, but not all the old faces were there. Apparently old Dunstan was gone as others were, but Masef didn't know the actual story. He would have to find that out. In a more peaceful time, the tavern made sense as a place to meet without fear. Now, it was the best place to meet only because they all knew it was a good place to gather, but it had its dangers. The voice in his head, not his own, whispered of the potential danger. It even warned against the cider, given by one of the serving girls that recognized one of Brand's, without bothering about payment. Masef ignored the old Bastard; he knew Bosfyrd's natives.

Brand of the Nightwood was one of their most able defenders. They were holding out against hope that his brood might make their return. A flash of a smile here, a nod there, but carefully blank faces when outsiders were looking. Still, it wouldn't do to linger. The village was not his element, but it was a place to pick up the trail of any other siblings, if he were lucky.

@R31GN@Naril@POOHEAD189@Gunther@NickTrano@AirBender

It had taken weeks to travel northwards from Meyersport, and Varrick was not one for twiddling his thumbs. He'd had to take the back roads and cut through the forest at times to avoid King Harold's patrols. Fell creatures, once consigned to the darkest corners of the kingdom, now strode in broad daylight wearing the King's colors. Varrick had passed through more than a few burned villages, the mutilated corpses of their denizens laid out for all to see. Which was not to say Varrick feared them - he was just being cautious.

Kicker's barding was wrapped in cloth on the back of Varrick's pack horse, and he wore his green cloak with the hood up. Still, the sword was a bit conspicuous; not that he'd be willing to let it leave his side. Some of his brothers may have traded horses the entire journey to make speed to Bosfyrd, but Kicker was a war horse - not some farmer's beast of burden to be handed off at first convenience. Besides, I'll probably need him soon, Varrick thought. Baron William may have been slain, but Varrick couldn't shake the feeling that the war was just beginning.

Varrick patted Kicker's neck, and looked on ahead. There were farmer's paths leading into Bosfyrd, but taking the forest gave him the opportunity to see what he was walking into without anyone else watching him. The sun was still high in the sky when Kicker crested the hill.

"We're here, boy. Let's see if the old ranger's still around." The horse rolled an eye and nickered, before continuing its walk.

. . .

Varrick waited until nightfall to enter the town leaving Kicker and the pack horse in the woods. The town's guards were unfamiliar - probably pulled from the rebelling lords' jail cells, if what he'd seen of the army's work was any indication. Nevertheless, they had gotten to work. For fifty yards around, the trees had been cut down leaving only stumps. It looked like they were building a rudimentary palisade. Still, the stumps gave him enough color to make it to the outer buildings, and from there it was easy to slip into the town unharassed.

It was late enough that few people were about, but not so much that a person out walking would seem unusual. Varrick made for the Scuffed Boots. If anyone could tell him more about what was going on, it would be the tavern's owner. Joren Muttle was a good man, and Varrick knew he could trust him. Still, he didn't know about the rest of the village. He took the back entrance.

@R31GN@Naril@POOHEAD189@Gunther@NickTrano@AirBender

Garbed in his usual large brown cloak, Grey stared down at the road as his horse plodded along. A journey of many days was coming to an end for the ranger, and he could feel the relief of rest just around the corner. Though the sun had beat heavily down on his cloak during the day, dusk approached to stave off the heat, and the path he rode wound and wove between many of the luscious green trees. Each canopy he passed beneath brought with it a refreshingly cool wave of air, certainly welcome after a long days travel. His horse seemed to be in high spirits, surprising considering it's long travels with heavy cargo.

As he neared Bosfyrd, Grey slid smoothly off of his horse to one side, boots raising a cloud of dust as he landed hard on the dirt road. He kept a firm hold of the reigns as he walked, leading the beast of burden with care. He glanced at it briefly, thankful for it's use. Grey had called in a favor from an inkeeper with whom he was familiar to borrow the animal under the condition that he deliver the animal along with an assortment of goods to the owner of the Scuffed Boot. Two debts taken care of at once for the inkeeper, it seemed. Luckily the deal worked perfectly for Grey -his destination was that very tavern in hopes of making contact with one of his family.

Grey's heavy brown cloak trailed in the dust as he walked, picking up a lighter color at the edges. He cared little, despite the value of his cloak. Simple and cloth, few outside of the ranger would find it particularly useful, but Grey found it to be perfect in every way. The sheer size of the cloak not only masked Grey's stature, it allowed for the concealed storage of Jael and Zarall, his weapons that would be otherwise conspicuous. And while it was uncommon to see one wearing a cloak quite so large, it often went unnoticed due to the sheer simplicity of it all. The fact that it was lined in pockets that facilitated easy storage of survival supplies was just another benefit.

Grey finally reached the heart of the town, and lifted his hood. The sun was fading quickly, and he didn't want to look like trouble. Just the opposite, in fact. As a farmer passed, likely returning from selling his crop, Grey gave him a curt nod with a bright smile. He was rather surprised to find the farmer didn't return the gesture, simply kept riding along with a scoff and an annoyed look. This brought a concerned frown to Grey's face as he continued to lead his horse. "Things have changed, it seems." It had been some time since his last contact with the brood of Brand, and longer even since his last visit to Bosfyrd. "Perhaps," Grey thought as he approached the front door to the Scuffed Boot. "This was a mistake. What guarantee have I that my brothers and sisters still gather here?" He shrugged as he entered the tavern, leaving the negative thoughts outside. Better to go in positive.

As he walked in, he caught the eye of a young serving girl -one he knew in a very biblical sense from is last stay in the tavern. He motioned her over with a quick nod of the head, drinking in the rich scent of alcohol in the place. As the girl approached, he leaned in close and told her of his horse bearing supplies he had tied to a post outside, and bade her to inform Joren Muttle, as well as giving the man his own personal regards. He had done work for Joren in the past, and considered him to be a good friend.

Business concluded, Grey took a moment to absorb the atmosphere before taking a seat at a stool. The tavern reeked of warmth, both literally and figuratively. The first thought that came to mind for Grey was a memory of a warm hearth at home, safe and secure. As he looked around, the sense of security dulled just the slightest bit. He recognized many faces among the patrons, but was rather worried by the amount he saw that were entirely alien to him. His eyebrows knit in concentration for a moment, before he allowed the feeling to pass. His expression returned to his usual smile -warm and inviting. While his adoptive family was entirely adept in the art of stealth, often becoming nigh-invisible in the forest, Grey's stealth skills took on a different visage. Rather than hiding in the shadows and vanishing, Grey hid in plain sight, always looking as though he belonged exactly where he was.

As he leaned back in his stool, fingers interlaced behind his head to support it, Grey scanned the tavern briefly. His eyes soon locked again with those of the serving girl. He raised his eyebrows, and she gave him a smile before ducking behind the counter across the room. When she again emerged, it was with a pint of sweet smelling liquid, an old favorite of Grey's. She handed it to him with a playful smile, and though she tried to deny it first, Grey insisted she take his payment. The ranger gave her a wink as she left to serve other patrons, stuffing the coin into a purse at her hip.

@Naril@POOHEAD189@Gunther@NickTrano@AirBender@HeySeuss

She had taken off the earrings. Now was not the time to be training herself not to be expressive with her ears. In order to do that, she had to be in control of herself. Right now, Ashira was anything but. Ever since she had come back from that hunting trip to find that Brand wasn't there, her ears and been twitching constantly. Switching back and forth between emotions faster than she could understand them. Grief, guilt, anger, frustration, confusion. It was far worse than the mood swings she suffered due to her body's child making capabilities. Once Ashira would have walked through the Nightwood with confidence and a head held high. Now she stared down at the ground, allowing her long black locks to cover her face.

Despite the fact that she was looking down the entire time, her body weaved naturally through the trees, not bumping into anything or tripping even once. If it had been any other time, she would have been in the trees, leaping from branch to branch. But she had neither the energy or the desire to do so. This place was her home and she loved it more than anything, but right now every tree, every plant, every creature, just mocked her for what had happened. She had been there, she could have done something, anything. Offered him support from the trees, fought by his side to the bitter end, at least been there when he died. But instead she had been sent out on some stupid hunting trip. For once she was glad her siblings had all left. Because right now she didn't think she could face any of them.

When she got to the edge of the Nightwood, Ashira paused and finally looked up from the ground. Steeling herself, she put on a brave face. A request for herbs had come in from the owner of the tavern known as the Scuffed Boots. Without Brand here to fill the request, it was just up to her. After taking another moment, Ashira left the Nightwood and headed into town, striding past the guards outside without so much as looking at them. They all knew who she was of course, she had been here most of her life after all. So even in the dark like this, they didn't stop her. Thankfully the Scuffed Boots wasn't too far away, Ashira preferred to stay in the Nightwood than head into town, so it only took a few minutes to get there.

When she entered the tavern, Ashira didn't even so much as glance at the patrons. She really didn't feel like dealing with drunken men and their poor attempts at flirting right now. Instead she made straight for the bar, where the tavern's owner was, ready to serve up drinks to any who came inside. Placing the pouch filled with herbs on the bar, there was a short conversation before the owner took the herbs and went to the back. Ashira, like Brand before her, wasn't going to accept money as payment. Instead the owner offered to give her a free drink. Hot cider, the none alcoholic kind of course, as Ashira wasn't much of a drinker. As much as she wanted to get out of here, she took him up on the offer, a warm drink would do her some good right now.

Beren held the arms of the wagon as he moved, corded muscles keeping it upright as his powerful legs took one step after another. His dark and thick, unkempt hair shielded his dark chocolate eyes from the rays of the sun. His bare chest had a small sheen of sweat on it, shining sun upon his skin. The women and children in the wagon talked among themselves and looked around the forest uneasily. The ranger monk was inexorable as a mountain as he carried them to the town he knew so well from his youth.

Normally he was reserved, but cheerful and warm to those whom he would help. Now though, Brands death weighed heavily upon him. It hadn't quite hit him yet, but he knew that once he was there in the Nightwood...in the glade Brand called home, he would feel it in his heart. For now, he would do what he did best. What he knew Brand did best. Helping those in need. These villagers behind him he had discovered in hiding, fearfully crouching among the piled rubble. A bandit raid had pillaged the village, and Beren promised to protect them, leading them to the closest town. He had found a wagon and decided to pull them along that way, to get them off their feet. They'd been through enough.

It was dusk when they made it through the front gates. Not that there was any wall framing it. It was more for show, but it heralded home. He let the wagon down at the center square, and gave the people 9 gold coins, leaving him 3 left to enjoy himself. He'd find work somehow, he knew. If he didn't give up his coins to them now, he would have transported them to the town to have them live on the streets. It wasn't right. He bid them farewell, grabbed his equipment and weapons, and donned his shirt of course before making his way into the Scuffed Boots.

A warm smile grew on his face as he strode in, recognizing Grey and Ashira, looking so much like how he had remembered them. He decided he'd head over and greet them both after he found a seat. He was eager for the hugging, despite his usual stoicism. You couldn't help but get a warm feeling when seeing family after so long...



@NickTrano@Naril@Gunther@R31GN@AirBender@HeySeuss@NickTrano

"MAKE WAY FOR HIS MAJESTY THE KING," the herald bellowed as the royal party clattered at a near gallop into the battered fortress's tightly packed outer court, "MAKE WAY!"

The assembled dignitaries knelt on the muddy flagstones, old Baron Whul's arms spread in the traditional posture of welcome as King Harold and his courtiers dismounted. The Baron's wrinkled face was white with fear, as were many faces in the kneeling crowd. Playing host to his Majesty was perilous in these dark times.

"You may rise," said the King as he pulled off the royal riding gloves. He did not deign to look down at the Baron as he spoke, "I desire to dine now. Then I wish to be entertained by mummers in the great hall. We discuss the state of your holdings tomorrow."

"Of course, Majesty," stuttered Whul as he tottered to his feet, "And might I say it is an honor to have you stay with us here. I-"

"Honor is it?" snapped the King, spinning on his heel to face the mumbling nobleman, "Where was honor when the rebels where burning my lands? Where was honor when you sat in your castle for nine months, ignoring my commands?"

"Majesty, I..."

"Majesty, Majesty," Harold sneered, turning away once more, cloak billowing out behind him as he marched towards the castle's hall, surrounded by sniggering courtiers and guardsmen clanking in heavy armor.

Baron Whul wheezed apologies after the king as he struggled to keep up.

"Don't take it so badly, your Baronialness, old Harry's just having a rough day," said a genial voice from behind Whul, before a heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder, "Short on cash, and dealing with some unsavory creditors."

Now it was the old Baron's turn to spin on his heel, spluttering and outraged, "Indecorous behavior, who are...?!"

The man behind him was on the short side, balding, thickset but in the hard way of men who live life out of doors, his face studded by the tell-tale pockmark scars of a plague survivor. He was smiling, his teeth square and uncannily white under rather magnificent mustaches. He had gleaming green eyes that did not quite match the warmth of his grin. He wore black leather armor with no device or badge. A mercenary, then. One of Harold's sellsword captains.

Baron Whul had spent a long life staying alive by knowing the dangerous ones when he saw them, and this man sure as hell fit the bill.

"I'm just one of Harry's dogs, a dog who's getting a mite hungry, I must say," said the sellsword, chomping his teeth twice for effect and chuckling, "Daigon's the name, Captain of the Red Fangs, a thoroughly disreputable rabble, I'm afraid."

"I-I've heard of you, sir," managed the Baron.

"I'm sure!" said Daigon, "Sad to say I've acquired a bit of a reputation over a long and wicked life."

Behind the sellsword captain, a new company of troops had arrived in the court and were busily dismounting, some clad in the colors of the Royal Guards, others clearly mercenaries. Their weapons were unsheathed.

"Lot of troops you brought with you," said Whul, "There are no rebels in my lands..."

"No, or not many," said Daigon with a smile, "But I wasn't sure how well-manned this fine little fortress of yours was, or how much of a fight would be left in you."

"Fight? I..."

He was cut off by a scream from somewhere along the walls, followed by much shouting and the sounds of clashing steel.

"Someone's got to pay the royal bills, Whul," said Daigon, a thick hand resting on the pommel of his curved sword, "Now, would you kindly direct me to the castle treasury?"

@NickTrano @Naril @Gunther @R31GN @AirBender @HeySeuss @poohead189

Loden merrily strode along the packed earth and stone roadway. It felt comforting to be on such familiar ground. He gazed upon the forest, left and right, with warmth, smiling as thoughts of his childhood flooded back. Those were good days, good times indeed, he thought to himself. He allowed the loss of his mentor and adopted father to sink back in his subconscious for now. No reason to become sad and gloomy on such a beautiful day as this. The insects buzzed about the clearings, butterflies bounced on the air and small birds darted in and out of the trees singing their songs of joy, of life. So, did Loden Grimm, sing his song of joy, one he learned many years ago from Brand of the Nightwood...



Almost on cue, the song ended as he came to the small village of Bosfyrd, the hamlet he visited on occasion with his father, fetching supplies or bartering away something one of his siblings may have crafted. The children made many finished products over the years, which Brand could find a buyer for quite easily to help raise his large brood of wayward children. The children were more than happy to use their talents to raise money for the family. After all it was Brand who taught them to build such fine tools.

The sights and sounds of the woods and hamlet caused many delightful memories of a safer time. They overwhelmed him and brought joy to his heart. That feeling is what pushed the Ranger-Healer to sing his song of yore.

Standing at the edge of the town, leaning against a building, Loden eyeballed several armed men with no identifying tabard, seal or banner marking them as soldiers belonging to Baron Whul or King Harold. They displayed no colors for any of Harold's vassals in Vendland. Were they were mercenaries? If so, why were they here in Bosfyrd?

Not wanting to attract attention, Loden silently made his way past back doors and through alleyways until he found himself at the tavern known as "The Scuffed Boots". He entered quietly, lowered his hood and scanned the room. He attempted to acclimate himself to the patronage, looking from face to face. He eagerly sought a familiar face. It had been ten years since last he visited these lands. Although he was certain there was someone in this tavern who knew him, he was equally certain they had all grown up and changed their appearance.

Loden scanned the room until his eyes fell upon a tanned young man in his early twenties. Given his appearance, chances were he was one of Brand's children and that made him a brother. The man was dark haired and appeared to possess a natural grace only a few, himself included are blessed with. He had similarly dark eyes, almost amber in color. He was clean shaven with his hair pulled back wearing a sand colored cloak. The ring in his ear, made Loden look twice as he'd only seen a few of the desert tribes wear these, then it dawned on him. This was the boy, Masef who was twelve years old when he left. He was 80% certain it was Masef and would speak with the young man to verify.

Then his eyes fell upon a trio at the back of the room, two young men and a young woman. The taller of the two men, looked familiar but could not place him. The shorter man, was still taller than Loden, maybe just under six foot with a lean muscular physique. His kind, soulful eyes reminded him of a boy he knew in his teens. Then it hit him, this was the kid who came to Brand's home in the last three years he lived there. He had previously lived with a monk and had an old soul. 'What was his name,' Loden throught to himself, 'Bey, Ron? Baron? something like that.' When he looked at the woman, he realized she was an elf which brought him back to the elven girl he once knew. He remembered nursing her back to health at one time. Although she was always shorter than him, today, she was about the same height. He recalled she was a very kind hearted sweet young girl who he really enjoyed being around. When he realized who it was, he shouted, "Ashira!" and moved as quickly through the crowd to the trio. As he got closer, a smile spread across his face, "Ashira!" he exclaimed at the group. "It's Loden, Loden Grimm. I haven't seen you in ten years." He reached out and gave her a big hug.

@NickTrano@Naril@Flagg@R31GN@AirBender@HeySeuss@poohead189

She had hoped to arrive in Bosfyrd by the morning, but that hadn’t happened. Summer was here, and the nights were nowhere near the length that Kiera preferred. The Pilgrim’s Road, too, had been busier than she had expected - and with every rumor for a dozen miles being bloodier than the last, she’d decided to resort to paths other than the ancient stone road. Broken ground, twisting roots and soaked ground were, of course, no obstacle to one of Brand’s wards, but the plain fact remained that, on foot, roads would always be faster. She glanced at the sky behind her, brightening from purple-black towards the blue and pink of morning, and sighed. At least the sun would be behind her - somehow the day’s heat always seemed more bearable that way.

An hour later and the sun was fully in the sky, already promising a hot day. Kiera came closer to the town and saw fields opening up, the green heads of early-season wheat thrashing in a quickening breeze. At least on this side of Bosfyrd, her options would be to return to the road, or try to sneak through grain no higher than her knees, and that was no choice at all. Gliding over the last of the deep woods, Kiera came back to the ancient path, stones rutted from the iron-bound wheels of innumerable carts, and blinked against morning light unfiltered by the forest canopy. She pulled in a long, slow breath, smelled horses and dust and the smoke from ovens. She turned her head, pulled her cloak hood down further, and started following the road toward Bosfyrd.

The light, of course, didn’t hurt her eyes. In fact, it couldn’t - but the hood could keep people from looking too closely, and right now Kiera wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Brand of the Nightwood was dead, and, if rumor were to be believed, killed by agents of an increasingly irrational King. There were places near the Nightwood that had relied on Brand - and, after a fashion, his wards - and part of her knew that without the old man, those places would be left vulnerable. She hadn’t left on good terms with the old ranger, and indeed hadn’t seen him for ten long winters, but Kiera knew that without him, those places would be vulnerable to the mad monarch. They had fought, yes, and Kiera had said things about which she would always feel shame, but the old ranger’s lessons were still strong in her mind. The people who had relied on Brand didn’t deserve to be left to a mad King’s whim. Someone had to help them - Kiera only hoped she wouldn’t be the only one of her…family that thought so.

The road passed into Bosfyrd on a straight and dusty track, good to keep carts moving and equally useful to see anyone approaching the town for some distance. Already a small line of carts and laden animals were passing slowly down that road while men that could only be guards stood watch. Even at a casual glance, Kiera knew these were none of the Baron’s guard, or anyone deputized by one of Brand’s adoptive children. They stood tall and arrogant, and the world twisted and spun between them, an ugly cloud of barely-restrained violence. In her strange perception, Kiera almost believed she could see flickering moments of these men murdering townsfolk, looting the traders, or worse - simply because they could. A young woman passed by with a donkey-cart of eggs, and the impressions Kiera saw there were things she found all too easy to believe.

There were ways to get around the guards, of course - deep shadow still stretched across the road from the early morning, but Kiera’s walk had been long and she was more than a little tired. She needed to get into the town, but perhaps through a less thrilling path than dancing over low stone walls and launching herself from trees. Ahead, she made out a man - a young man, younger than she would have expected - in a long brown cloak leading a heavily-loaded horse to the gates. Kiera quickened her steps, coming alongside the laden animal and cast her eyes over the goods and packages - if she were to guess, this looked like a pack animal for the local tavern, loaded with bottles, fruit, dishes. And…Kiera smirked, an idea flickering through her mind.

Her hands moved with lightning quickness, one of her daggers parting the string holding something in place without not even a whisper. She turned a little and reached into the bags and bundles without a sound, pulling a pair of items off the cart. The fabric of her cloak hid much of her movement and she was glad she hadn’t taken it off, even in the growing warmth of the day. Her task complete, Kiera stayed near the horse for another few moments, stepping away only when another animal coming the opposite direction swayed close and offered her no option but to move or be squashed between a pair of saddlebags. Stepping into the long shadow of an oak tree, she looked down at her hands - an apple, and the long, slightly curved handle of a small cider press. She grinned, then rammed the apple onto the smaller end of the cider press’ handle. A handkerchief wrapped around the apple and tied in a ragged knot, and from any reasonable distance, she had a walking stick.

Kiera stooped down, rounding her back and bending her knees, leaning theatrically on the stick. Almost perfect, but good enough for now. She shuffled out of the shadow toward the town gate and the guards, her hood pulled so low that seeing her face would be a considerable task. The pack animal she’d pilfered wandered past the guards, who cast a suspicious eye over them but let the animal and the young man leading it pass. Kiera hoped it was going where she thought - she’d have to return these props. A cider press without a handle would only be very expensive decoration, after all. Behind another animal, she saw the perfect completion to her “costume” - a reed and wicker basket with a hole stomped through it by an ox, left behind another cart filled with fruit and root vegetables. Kiera scooped it up, crooked it under her arm, and slumped toward the town entrance.

She turned her head inside her cloak as she made her slow, apparently painful way into town, and she marveled at the utter indifference of the guards. Obviously, an old woman scraping through a dusty road with a broken basket would have nothing to threaten the King, no valuables, and nothing for their more…prurient interests. They didn’t give Kiera a second look. She grinned to herself, and coughed theatrically in their direction, a deep-chested, phlegmy cough, the kind that promises plagues. The nearest guard looked over, and a sense of disgust rolled over him so strong that Kiera needed no mystic sight to feel it. She grinned and managed to turn her chuckle into a spit to the side of the road, shuffling around a corner and out of the guards’ view.

She straightened, then blew out a long breath of relief in the shade of a squat building. Then she tossed the basket aside, and pulled apart her makeshift props, settling the press handle over one shoulder like a bindle stick and tossing the apple into the air then catching it with her other hand. She walked into the sunlight and took a bite of the apple, still with her hood up but walking with a purpose. She turned her head, taking in the town of Bosfyrd and memories came flooding in from years long gone and far from lost. She remembered this town’s tavern - the Scuffed Boots, a name that Kiera had always thought was silly but with an owner who was anything but. Slowly unrolling recollection took her down first one side street then another to the familiar sign, now cracked and sun-faded, one hinge crusted with dark orange rust. Kiera pushed open the door, and part of her was disappointed that the familiar two-tone creak she had such strong memories of seemed no longer to be present - new hinges, perhaps.

Familiar smells and familiar sounds filled the air - some even more familiar than she expected. Kiera turned, one pale eyebrow arched, and lowered her hood. Laughing voices from across the years, sounds she never thought she’d hear again. Four people near the back of the room, and each one a brilliant splinter in her perceptions, a swirl of memory and will and familiarity. Slowly, with careful grace, Kiera made her way to those people, her throat going dry. Would they remember how she left? Had Brand told them why? Would they hate her? The years were long, but she knew, some feelings would burn like the stars.

Kiera stepped up to the four, taking the cider press handle off her shoulder and setting one end on the floor, holding it like a gentleman's walking stick. Her hair caught the light, her skin almost seemed to drink it in. She looked at Loden, so much more than the boy she’d left behind with Brand, and at Ashira, grown up in more ways than one. The pair of them were so familiar, but at the same time such a gulf of time separated them. Kiera swallowed, opened her mouth to speak, but something else caught her attention. The man whose horse she'd borrowed the handle from sat not far away - and with a sharp pang, she recognized him as Beren, another of Brand's wards. She cleared her throat and turned back to Loden.

"Loden Grimm," Kiera said, her accent still precise and unplaceable in equal amounts, "It's been a...long time." Her eyes flickered to the others in the room, a faint, sad smile touching her lips.

"So many of us here, hm?" She said and gestured to Beren with the tip of the press handle, "And the guards on the road aren't any he would have let within ten strides of that kind of authority. The stories must be true, then."

@NickTrano@Flagg@R31GN@AirBender@HeySeuss@Poohead189@Gunther

The back door was locked, but Varrick knew where Joren hid the key. He ran his hand along the wall, to the right of the door. One, two, three, he counted over the boards. The fourth one popped out of place if you hit it right. He rapped the board with his knuckles and, sure enough, there was the key. Glad the old man hasn't decided to up his security, Varrick thought.

It didn't take long to unlock the door, replace the key, and find himself face to face with Joren Muttle. The rear door did open into the tavern keeper's office, after all. If 'office' was the correct word for a liquor store room that also happened to hold ledgers, one of which Muttle was presently poring over. The tavern keeper looked up in surprise, reaching for the butcher's knife he'd always kept at his desk. Then recognition hit him. He stood up, and shouted with arms raised, "Varrick!" The waddling man crossed the room faster than Varrick thought possible, before enveloping him in a hug. "It's been too long, son."

Muttle released the hug after a moment, leaving Varrick to hope that the breastplate had held up and the pain in his ribs was just bruising. "Joren! Good to see you too," Varrick said, a smile creeping onto a face that hadn't done so in weeks.

The smile on Muttle's face died, and he looked away. "You heard about Brand?"

Varrick shook his head, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "No. Is he still fighting?"

Muttle sighed. "He tried to stay out of it, Varrick." Muttle waddled back to his stool and sat down, suddenly looking very tired. "The King's men got him last week. He put up a fight, but there were too many of them."

Varrick didn't want to ask. "Is he. . ?" he trailed off.

"The King doesn't take prisoners, Varrick." Muttle shook his head and looked at the floorboards. "Not anymore."

Varrick slammed his fist into the wall, broken chips of plaster raining to the floor. "I'll kill him!" Varrick shouted. Then he noticed Muttle shrink, his eyes darting around.

"I hope you do, Varrick." Muttle eyed the door leading to the common area. "But the King's men are everywhere now. I'd keep the treasonous plotting quiet, if I were you."

Varrick sighed, lowering his voice. "Are any of my brothers and sisters here?"

Muttle nodded. "They've been streaming in. Strange that you all decided to show up today."

"Can you get them?" Varrick asked, realizing that even if his siblings weren't yet fugitives, word of him killing three of the King's men - and maiming another - had likely traveled. "I'd like to talk to them, but I'd rather not be seen."

"Anything for you kids, Varrick." Muttle got up and made for the door, turning back before crossing into the other room. "Brand raised you right, all of you," he said, and then he was gone.

Varrick didn't know what he was going to say when he saw them, but he knew that there was only one way this was going to end. Either they all died on crosses, or they figured out how to kill King Harold. Varrick patted the pommel of his sword. Maybe you'll finally get your name, he thought.

@NickTrano@Naril@Flagg@R31GN@AirBender@HeySeuss@poohead189

"This feels... right. This is good." Grey mentally reassured himself, raising his eyes to see a familiar pair come seemingly appear from nowhere. Perhaps unnoticed in his admittedly lazy search earlier, or perhaps simply having sneaked in later, was an exotic looking face of dark eyes and skin. Certainly familiar to Grey, though a name failed to present itself for the face. Still, he was certain that this man was a part of Brand's brood at one point -the sheer similarities in their mannerisms had drawn Grey's attention. To this currently nameless ranger, Grey offered a simple acknowledging wave of the hand, giving him the initiative to make a move.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention when Grey heard a familiar voice speak up softly, speaking of herbs or some such natural nonsense. His ever so slightly pointed ears twitched as he turned to the source of the voice, at the bar with a hot cider. He looked at Ashira, largely unchanged since their last meeting physically, though deeper than that she was very clearly different. Grey could see the grief washing over his 'sister', a wave of emotion that he couldn't help but sympathize with. Instinctively, he put a protective hand on her shoulder, placing his drink down on the bar in front of him. "Sister! How fortunate to cross paths here!" He said as he approached. Though his voice naturally raised in excitement of seeing his little sister once more, he kept it at a low enough register to not disturb others in his joyous revelry. "I..." He began to inquire as to the source of her sorrows, but felt it better to allow her to offer up the source if she so wished.

By some miracle of the gods, Grey was confronted with yet another familiar face, coming now in the form of his good brother Beren. Another of the brood close to himself in ideology, Grey always had a special fondness in his heart for the muscular man. Though Beren was his senior in age, taller stature and more mature features might lead an outsider to believe that Grey was in fact the elder. A hearty laugh accompanied Grey's greeting to the kind hearted ranger, as well as a brief but warm embrace. "Could this day improve any further? I think not!" Grey exclaimed jovially, basking in the happiness brought by the unexpected reunion that was slowly forming. His spirits were far higher than they likely should've been -a weak memory plagued the half elf, often clouding his more important thoughts. His entire quest to the Scuffed Boot was in the hope of gaining more information, for he had heard news of great importance regarding Brand of the Nightwood, the rumors that had spread from tavern to tavern already had fuzzy details, only clouded further in exposure to his failing memory. Grey had known his best hope would be to seek out his family to hear the full story -clearly important considering the number of them gathering at the time.

When a shout grated against Grey's ears, he snapped to his feet rather abruptly, hand instinctively moving to the handle of his sword beneath his cloak. Only reunited for a matter of minutes, and Grey was already feeling protective of his 'little sister'. When his eyes locked with the shouting man, he instantly relaxed, a smile spreading across his face. He stepped back to lean against the bar, hand lazily grasping his pint of ale. He mused to himself over the events of the night. "Ah, what are the odds of a reunion like this coming together so perfectly. This is just like a lazily written children's tale." He thought, a lazy smirk falling across his bearded face.

His head half turned to the counter as he felt a tap on his shoulder. His smile grew even wider when he found it to be the ever friendly serving girl with whom he was so familiar. When he inquired as to what it was she needed, she rather crossly informed him that the supplies delivered were all as expected, save for the cider press. While a good enough cider press to do the job, she said, it would hardly be of any use without a handle. Grey seemed as surprised as she was, and might've claimed it be knocked off on the road if the removal hadn't been so clean. Grey himself was completely stumped, and could do no more than sheepishly apologize, and promise to find a solution in good will. The serving girl smirked as she left, perhaps happy to see Grey on the defensive -a rare sight indeed.

An exotic voice dripping with an unidentifiable accent brought his attention back to the slowly growing group of family before him. Perhaps even more attention grabbing than the return of Ashira was this voice. Though he had known Kiera for only a brief year, much of that time spent in recovery, he had always been fascinated by the dark elf. Perhaps her blindness, perhaps the mystery surrounding her, perhaps her skills at working with her hands, something about her caught the special attention of Grey. Though he made efforts to keep tabs on his family when not connected by Brand, this effort was doubled in the case of Kiera. Perhaps a bit of an obsession, but Grey tried his best not to dwell on such thoughts.

"Stories aplenty I've heard, in a thousand variations of truth. I'll admit, I know not what to believe and what to dismiss, which is largely why I have sought you all out." Grey spoke up in response to Kiera, the end of his sentence changing to largely address the rest of the group.

@Naril@POOHEAD189@Gunther@NickTrano@AirBender@HeySeuss

Masef couldn't put his finger on his instincts, but he never could and stopped bothering after a while. He knew that something was amiss; he also heard, down the Pilgrim Road, the word of a ranger's last stand. There were no other rangers of renown around here, this far south in Vendland. When the old Harold, Harold the Grey, was king, Brand served legendarily and with distinction when the throne called. He took an honored retirement with the respect, eschewing titles and grants, preferring the humble life. Harold the Green, his son, became Bloody Harold.

Nonetheless, Masef held against hope that Brand was not the ranger that made the terrible stand that the merchants took down the road some ways. And yet, he steeled himself, even as he spurred himself onward. One day, his inner voice didn't advise, it compelled. Get up there. It perhaps had something to do with promises spoken on his departure, but it suddenly kicked in. And then, eventually, he came across a Vendish merchant, relieved to be leaving the country and explaining that he was gone for good. Too much blood, too much killing. Even a man like Brand couldn't hold against that grim tide.

Others filtered in and they seemed to be the family, and one man that had to be Loden was looking in his direction, but it was Joren Muttle that nudged him, "In back," he murmured.

Masef gave a quick nod and paid up for another drink, "Thank you, another dreenk please. Ees goot." He thickened the accent and looked lost, "Wheech way to pees?"

But he hadn't taken a sip of the first. He'd learned something of the intrigues of the Great Whore, Daramalsh, or at least how to keep a low profile in public. The place was a den of rogues, and it was easy to get killed. You learned to blend in such places. What he never would have believed was that Bosfyrd could feel like that. He could feel the eyes on the strangers and the locals alike, an unsettling feeling that palled the room's normally-boisterous crowd. This place was a rabbit, huddling in fear. The mood seeped right into his bones.

He made his way out to the piss-spot outside and handled that part of it. On the way out, he scoped the way to the office door and used the route he planned out in his mind to get in there without a fuss or much of a stir.

It was Varrick. Not his favorite brother, but one couldn't choose family, even in a family as unorthodox as Brand's. He let his hand slip off the kindjal, because he'd walked in half expecting a trap. Qazar was practically shouting FOOL! in his skull, but there was a limit to suspicion.

"Peace, Brother," he reached out to handclasp. It wasn't in them to embrace.

@Naril@POOHEAD189@Gunther@NickTrano@AirBender@HeySeuss

Ashira took a sip of the hot drink the tavern owner had put in front of her. Usually it would have heightened her mood, it was her favorite drink after all, but after Brand's death, nothing was able to. She planned on returning to the forest as soon as she was done with her drink. There really wasn't much for her here, not with her request completed. A hand on her shoulder caused Ashira's left hand to move from her drink to the hunting knife attached to her thigh. Just what she needed right now, some drunken pervert. As she turned to confront him, a threat against his manhood was already on her lips. But it never left her mouth, because instead of a drunken pervert, it was a familiar face that met her. "Grey?" She said, surprised, but not unhappy.

Her ears perked up as the man spoke, it definitely was Grey. After each of them had left, Ashira had told herself she was never going to see any of them again. Maybe that's why it always made her cry so much to see them leave. Seeing Grey again made her forget everything she had told herself about not being able to face any of them after Brand's death. Even if for a short time, all the guilt and the grief were pushed away. "It's nice to see you again." She said, giving Grey a real smile, not the fake one she had been putting on for the townspeople. Grey looked like he wanted to say something else, but before he could, a voice called her name.

She had just enough time to turn and try and see who was calling for her, before she was suddenly mashed into a massive hug. The elf panicked for a brief second before the hugger announced his name, Loden. The second she heard the name, Ashira returned the hug, wrapping her arms around Loden. All her siblings held special places in her heart, but she had always felt very attached to this one. Since her first real memories were waking up at Brand's camp, and Loden was the one who nursed her back to health, he was the first person she ever remembered connecting with. "I missed you so much!" She said after the hug ended, too soon in her opinion. "Both of you." She added, directing that part at Grey.

Two of her siblings returning in one day? Either somebody up there loved her, or more likely, they had heard the news about Brand. No matter what reason brought them here, she was still overjoyed to be seeing them again. Make that three though, a familiar Dark Elf woman approached the group now and addressed Loden. Ashira had always had mixed feelings about Kiera. As an Elf, every fiber of her being told her not to trust the woman, Dark Elves were bad, evil even. And yet, Kiera was still her sister, and she would never forget that either, no matter what her instincts said. So it wasn't that she disliked the woman, it was that her own instincts were confusing her.

Ashira's mood immediately darkened as Kiera brought up the reason why they were all here. Grey mentioned not knowing exactly what had happened due to the amount of rumors there were. Ashira looked down at the floor, suddenly refusing to meet the eyes of any of her siblings. She wished she didn't have to say it, but who better than her to do so. "Brand is gone. Executed." She said, obviously upset by the ordeal. She wanted to say more, tell them how she failed to help him. But no more words would come to her. Tears threatened to spill from dark eyes, but Ashira tried desperately to keep her emotions under control. The townspeople were looking to her now, crying in front of them would do her no good.

@HeySeuss@NickTrano@R31GN@POOHEAD189@Flagg@Gunther@Naril

Varrick's hand reflexively went to his sword when he heard the footsteps coming toward the door. He only allowed himself to relax when he saw who had come. Masef, Varrick thought, he's grown up. But then, Varrick supposed they all had. Masef was one of the closest of Brand's children to Varrick in age, but the similarities stopped there. They hadn't ever been the best of friends, but they were brothers. In times like these, I suppose that's all I can ask for, Varrick thought.

Masef's complexion had darkened over the years, and his eyes gave off an air of many more years' worth of wisdom. In other times, perhaps Varrick would have called it unnatural; but things being what they were, he didn't give a damn. When Masef extended his hand, Varrick clasped it and shook.

"It's been a long time, Masef." They released the handshake, and Varrick went back to his spot leaning against the wall. "I hope we're all here," he said, crossing his arms and meeting Masef's eyes. "You know what happened. We need to get to work."

@Naril@POOHEAD189@Gunther@NickTrano@AirBender@HeySeuss

@Naril @POOHEAD189 @Gunther @NickTrano @AirBender @HeySeuss

He immediately regretted staying back and giving space. He was near them but to the side. As his friends, or should he say family, poured in he was greeted by smiles and recognizable looks. His unique dark skinned sister pointing at him as well, being her old self.

Often times he was very driven and focused. A single minded determination to train and do good overriding a lot of social interaction (that is, other than fireside chats, or unless he chose a day to take a break), but he cared for them as much as he cared about anyone in this world. Loden, Ashira, Grey, even Kiera. He couldn't help it and suddenly beamed, and decided to throw away all introverted actions. It was then that Ashira announced to them all of why Beren knew they had all come. He sighed when he stepped forward.

Striding towards them, he gave them all his warmest smile. "Hey" he said simply, his voice low and smooth. He patted a hearty hand on Loden's shoulder and put his other hand on Grey's, remembering all the times he had with these two. He shared bits of their personality in many different ways, and he recalled when he had realized that it was fate that made them brothers. Grey for his empathy of animals, and Loden for his skills as a warrior, as well as his similarly kind heart. He'd be there for them, all of them.

Beren was like a dog in a lot of ways. Loyal to a fault, being one of them. Then he saw Ashira almost welling up with tears, and he couldn't help himself. He had to give her a hug just as Loden did, holding her tightly for a moment before putting her at arms length. "It'll be ok, girly." he said, giving her a reassuring smile, as well as the playful name he'd often give girls he'd have fun with as a youth. "It's good to see you guys, all of you."

He turned and let out a breath, finally putting his eyes on Keira. The smile he gave her was more of a grin than anything. He had been quite young when he had known her, but as a youth Beren had been quite mischevious. It was odd, Beren's idealistic nature making him naturally hate deceit of any kind. But playfulness and roguish nature, he couldn't help himself sometimes. At least with those whom he enjoyed spending time with, like all of his siblings. Then he finally noticed what she had in her hands. His dark eyes met hers, even if she couldn't see, he knew she knew that he knew...that something was up.

@Flagg@NickTrano@HeySeuss@R31GN@Naril@Gunther@AirBender

Kiera was unmistakable, not only her accent, but appearance as well. There aren't too many blind dark elves who would show their face around here or associate with Brand's Rangers. It was almost as though they picked up right where they left off ten years earlier. He smiled a warm, genuine smile at her. They exchanged an embrace, the hug two siblings share when they are really happy to see one another.

“So, you’ve come back as well,” Kiera said, “You’ve heard the stories, then?”

Loden had been living in denial about the death of Brand. He didn't want to face it. Not yet, it was too soon. He didn't want to become sullen in front of his siblings. They had all just reunited. This should be a joyous occasion. Loden said nothing, but certainly, his face spoke volumes.

Grey was the first to speak up, "stories aplenty I've heard, in a thousand variations of truth. I'll admit, I know not what to believe and what to dismiss, which is largely why I have sought you all out."

Loden could not look at him as he spoke. He was not interested in what he had to say. He looked at Ashira. Looked at her face, picturing what she looked like when she was five or ten years old. He thought they were close, but now. Now, when they had to deal with the loss of their mentor, they benefactor, the only true parent he'd ever known. He looked into Grey's face. He remembered being in the forest with him on hunting trips. Grey was still learning the ropes and Loden was supposed to be a role model. How could he be a role model now? He was stricken with such grief it was paralytic. He looked at Keira and recalled the day he touched the sick girl. He was 16. That day changed his life. It frightened him, but everything was different now. He was able to help people, but he couldn't bring Brand back to life. He blamed himself for that.

Then Ashira spoke the words, visibly upset as Loden was, "Brand is gone. Executed." Loden couldn't say it. He couldn't admit to it. He could feel a hardness welling up in his throat. A terrible emotion was overwhelming his senses. He knew he needed to be alone. He looked about the room, seeking a quiet place. Some place to weep in peace.

"Please excuse me. I need to take care of something," Loden spoke softly to his siblings and headed for Joren Muttle's office in the back. He didn't look back. A tear trickled down his cheek. He allowed it to fall once he was away from his friends and siblings. He would not, could not cry in front of them. Now, his eyes were dripping, he attempted to wipe them, making his eyes red. He opened the door and faced, more people he did not want to see, but what was he to do? He could not return to the bar area. Besides, he hadn't seen Muttle or the other two in many years.

At first, he didn't recognize them, but an image of an infant came to mind. He recalled the baby who was Masef. His dark complexion, the earring. He was in the bar area earlier, "Masef?" This was the 12 year old boy who was so curious about the world. Loden spoke softly. He looked up at the larger man, much taller than he, but most men were larger than Loden Grimm. He was only five foot nine inches tall. The arrogance, the confidence. This man was a friend. They played together a lot and hunted in the woods frequently. This was, "Verrick!" He reached for the man's hand, and turned his former grim expression to one of elation. He shook both men's hands and turned his spirits around in the matter of seconds. He was home again. "It is so great to see you boys again! Wow, what a night this had turned into!"

@Flagg@NickTrano@HeySeuss@R31GN@Naril@POOHEAD189@AirBender

She had already known, of course, but her heart burned at Ashlra’s words. Brand hadn’t been captured, he hadn’t engaged and escaped, not even fought and lost. He had been executed, and Kiera could guess by whom. Loden had been right - the stories were varied, but common threads stood out. The King had sent his power into the Nightwood to murder a decent man because he wouldn’t bend his knee to a madman. A petty, vicious, senseless death, destruction without purpose. Kiera lowered her head and her hands tightened, her knuckles popping. She felt a hot flush prickle up her body, a sour concoction of fear, anger, helplessness, and shame.

Lost to her own thoughts, Kiera barely heard Loden step away. Still, something told her that the man left, a tickle against her senses. She raised her head, turned a little to watch Grimm’s departure, and raised one eyebrow. The whirl and dance of life and will in the tavern still blazed in her perceptions, but some part of all of that gathered near Loden in a way she had seen from very few others. A…connection, perhaps, power gathering and waiting to be given form and purpose. Kiera pulled in a breath to say something, but then the man was gone, disappearing behind a door to the tavern’s back rooms.

Kiera stepped closer to Ashira and Grey, her voice still quiet, “We owe him a funeral hm?,” She said, looking at the two, “Whatever else passed between us, we owe him that much. And the homestead, other children - that…mm…legacy, we cannot allow the King to burn or loot that.” She looked down at the table and tapped the end of the press handle on the floor with a dull thump.

“Mm. And…” She sighed, “There are no choices here. You saw those men outside, yes?” Kiera tilted her head in the direction of the guards, “Vile men. Killers, and worse. This cannot stand. He wouldn’t…mm.” She cleared her throat, “…We can’t allow it. These people have done nothing to the King, and he brings pain here because he can. They have no one to defend them except for us.”

The words almost felt like lies in her mouth. She remembered that last night at Brand’s homestead, remembered the tang of smoke on the air. She remembered slamming her hand on the table, feeling wood crackle under her hands, not understanding why and not caring, either. The raw, ragged edge of her voice, screaming at Brand in a fury she had never felt before then, her voice filled with rage and pain and hatred, even. She hadn’t been back since that night, and over the long years had believed she never again would set foot in the Nightwood. All the same, Brand’s memory deserved more than this, whatever else Kiera thought.

She shook her head, tried to clear her thoughts, and looked at her two companions. She was about to say something else, but cocked her head. Outside, the sound of metal and leather, but not a horse’s harness. Boots, but not a merchant moving through the streets. A cold feeling settled over her skin, and she turned her gaze out the nearby window.

“Do you feel that?” Kiera said.

Grey's face softened into an even deeper smile as he listened to his sister speak. Too long, it had been, since the family had been united, for his taste. Like a glass struck by too sharp a blow, so did Grey's smile shatter when Ashira spoke the fatal words. "Brand is gone. Executed." Though Grey did his best to control himself, his efforts were largely in vain. His spine went rigid, unnaturally straight. His teeth clenched, and eyes burned. Whether a tear escaped his unfeeling gaze was unknown. Beneath his angered grasp, the cheap tin pint of ale crumbled, spilling it's sweet contents across his hand.

When he felt the sickly sweet ale running down his hand, Grey snapped to his senses once again, looking around. He let go of the now misshapen mug, and wiped his hand absently on his cloak as he looked at his family, grey eyes widening to pools of sorrow. His hand fumbled as he reached to his hip. As his fingers moved, they brushed across the leather wrapped hilt of his sword and lingered there momentarily before continuing in their movement. His dirt-packed fingernails hooked into the elegant engraving of his hip flask as he yanked it free of his belt and brought it to his mouth. Grey took a large swig of the drink, allowing some of the amber fluid to run down the side of his face, disappearing into his rugged beard.

As he regained control of his faculties, Grey gave a hearty pat on the back to Beren on his approach. Grey raised a hand just slightly from his leg as Loden left to 'take care of something', wanting very much to say something, stop him, but he knew he couldn't. He felt the shared sorrow running throughout the entire family, and he knew that the healer would need time on his own to heal himself. Far from Grey's place to selfishly interrupt, so he let his hand fall without interrupting the mans exit.

Grey looked down, his face still numb with emotion despite having taken the reigns from his feelings already. His eyes flicked between the others briefly, before he raised his face once again, now with a warm smile mounted upon it. Though fair enough in appearance, the smile was forced, and twitched at the corners in effort. Acting sorry for himself and depressed would help no one -better to keep a warm front for the sake of the others, if not himself. His arms raised from his legs to his hips, elbows protruding in an almost mock heroic pose.

Grey nodded as Kiera spoke, though he felt her own disconnection with the pseudo-speech she gave. He took in a deep breath, contemplating his next words very carefully before Kiera spoke again and saved him from the thinking. In his peripherals, he understood where the dark elf turned her attention, and took a nonchalant glance in the direction of the window. Though he found nothing out of the ordinary through his entirely mundane senses, he knew better than to doubt the intuition of his blind compatriot. In Kiera's inflection, Grey understood the message. Something was out of the ordinary, and certainly not in the good way. In anticipation, Grey flexed his arms, tight leather armor creaking as he moved. His fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly.

With a pointed nod, Grey motioned to the back as he spoke, words more for the benefit of any eavesdroppers than his family. "I'm not entirely sure I do, sister. Perhaps we ought to return that handle press to Joren Muttle, I believe he'll be wanting it's use rather soon." He said, taking a step towards the back, still facing those of his family who were left. Both to reunite again with Grimm and to find a more private space for the discussion of what was about to happen, Grey not-so-subtly was urging the group to go to the back, but stayed close enough to be rather noncommittal. He wasn't about to move anytime soon unless the others committed for him.

@Naril@POOHEAD189@Gunther@NickTrano@AirBender@HeySeuss

Beren nodded in earnest at Keira's suggestion of a funeral. He could almost feel the sadness appear across his youthful face as he nodded. Brand deserved a proper burial and they would give it to him. Hands in his pockets, he looked around the tavern and observed as casually as he could. Keira's words reached his ears, and he realized they thought in a similar fashion. He was glad she was here though. With all these emotions coming to the fore, he had let the fact there was real danger slide right past his radar.

No more. He clenched his fists and crossed his arms. His dark eyes seemed to kindle a simmering fire, but he held his warrior's reserve. Beren was ready as ever to fight whoever would dare threaten innocents, much less his family. He kept his lips sealed and his breathing steady, letting his siblings hash out the details. As usual, Beren already made up his mind on what would happen. Follow his family and protect them with his life. He looked to Ashira and Grey, giving a smile when his brother patted his shoulder, and then to Keira. He nodded casually towards where Loden walked, indicating time was short.

@R31GN@Naril@Gunther@AirBender@HeySeuss@NickTrano

"We need to get to work," his brother said, but before Masef could respond, Loden came in. There was a reunion, but it was nervous. The whole time Masef was watching sideways out a window.

"It is so great to see you boys again! Wow, what a night this had turned into!"

"It's turning into something else," Masef noted from his position. He'd kept back from the window, letting the room's dim interior conceal while he watched out. It wasn't perfect camouflage, so he stayed as still as possible. He didn't want to take a crossbow bolt.

Masef indicated with a thrust of his jaw toward the window. "Do we stand and fight? Do we lure them away from the village?" There were advantages to either plan, of course, but the decision had to be made quickly, or the enemy would be upon them. Clearly someone in town noted the arrivals, overheard something and reported it along. It was hard to figure out who might have spoken the word, but it was not hard to believe that it could happen.

They had a momentary notice, a respite that gave them time to decide on a course of action quickly, but the time was like sand in a glass, ebbing quickly. Still, the evil old warlock was snarling away in the recesses of his mind, demanding fire, demanding punishment. It was a war of wills to keep the impulse to burn these swaggering scoundrels. He wasn't even sure such a power existed within him or there'd be any of Masef left once Qazar was done swallowing up his soul as grist for the mills of a magical firestorm.

SHUT UP

His jaw tensed, his teeth ground as he brought himself back from a brink, "We can start the war right here or we can start the war on a ground of our choosing, but we need to start it."

@R31GN@Naril@Gunther@AirBender@HeySeuss@NickTrano@flagg