"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." Varrick was already drawing his sword when Masef pointed out the new arrivals. The truth was, the place was probably already surrounded. Not even Brand's brood was going to make it out of there without shedding blood. The young lord Tuldar had seen the village's guardsmen on his way in, and he knew their sort. Thieves and brigands, after a quick coin. He had killed plenty. They would break.

Varrick heard a rasp of metal on metal emanating from the door. Someone was trying to force the lock. He looked his brother in the eye. "The war's already started, Masef." Varrick shrugged out of his cloak and turned to the door. "So let's get to fighting it!"

Varrick kicked the door open, sending the man on the other side reeling. He took the chance to stab him in the gut before stepping back to the side of the doorframe. He could've charged out into the black of the night, but the guardsmen were cowards. They probably had crossbows trained on every exit. The bastards were going to have to come to them.

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

Loden was slowly coming to terms with the death of Brand. The emotions were powerful, overwhelming him even. But walking in on Masef and Varrick just helped to kick his emotions into anger, that much faster. Masef mentioned the soldiers in the street. Loden had indeed seen them, but didn't give it much thought. Obviously, Masef had thought this through a bit further than Loden Grimm had the opportunity to think about. He wasted precious hours denying what he was slowly coming to terms with. Brand was dead and it had something to do with the soldiers out in the street.

Loden listened to Masef's words, "Do we stand and fight? Do we lure them away from the village?" Loden had to repeat these words a few time in his head before he accepted the fact, he was about to go to war with his brothers and sisters against an opponent they knew very little about if nothing at all. Brand always said, 'to defeat an enemy it is best to know as much as you can about them.' Then he would say, 'lacking that, know yourself.' I would say we had that working in our favor. If we didn't know them, we at least knew ourselves.

"Let them come in and drag us out," Loden allowed the words to gargle out of his mouth. He walked in the room feeling grief, sadness, denial and anxiety. With those words from Masef, he was now feeling anger and ready to reap some retribution to whoever masef, Varrick, Kiera, Ashira, Beren, Grey or anyone else he trusted considered to be the enemy. He was ready to fight. It was then, that he acknowledged his desire and ability to go to war, that he found his right hand resting on the hilt of Skarpinne. "What's the plan?" Loden smiled realizing that he passed on to an anger that warmed him, comforted him and helped him to deal with the loss of Brand.

Before Masef could say another word, Varrick escalated their posture by kicking the door to Muttle's office, knocking whoever was on the other side onto his backside. Loden flashed Skarpinne out of its sheath and readied for something. He didn't know what they were getting into but he was ready to fight, whoever it was.

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

"Those of us who fight best at range should use the roof and make them pay on the approach. The rest hold the doors. We turn over tables and create a barricade. But we can't stay here forever, we have to make them break and then run for it ourselves. If we tell everyone to clear out now, that should keep the soldiers at bay long enough to let us create a favorable battleground." Of course, Masef, and Qazar reminded him that this was foolish, intended to distract the troops from the roof by firing arrows at them. That would keep them from trying to even stop the taverngoers from their escape.

Masef wasn't sure about fighting it out in the middle of Bosfyrd; to him, it seemed antithetical to stand and fight like this, because that is what Brand did, but the reality was that a sharp, fast fight now might be bloody and messy for Bosfyrd, but it would allow them an opening, if they survived, to make their escape relatively unmolested in the confusion. They wouldn't be fighting a running battle, the plan was then to rout them and then make the escape while they lick their wounds.

Like all plans, it had consequences. But Loden and Varrick made their call, and Masef was, in essence, a younger brother. He started for the stairs, a bow and arrows already in hand. There was no time left for contemplation, just the battle. No time for doubt, just the enemy, his skill against theirs.

As he came through the stairs, "King's men, get out of here if you don't intend to stand and fight! This is between Brand's family and these bastards!" He dropped the accent of Daramalsh for the tones of a native, his own accent, "Get a bloody move on you lot, clear the pub!"

He didn't pause to see if there was a reaction, he was already making his sprint up the stairs, because the archers had to work fast.

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

Masef ran past Loden, out the door and yelled at the tavern patrons, "King's men, get out of here if you don't intend to stand and fight! This is between Brand's family and these bastards!" As though he were from two different locations, Masef's voice changed slightly and he added, "Get a bloody move on you lot, clear the pub!"

Loden quickly followed Masef out the door and yelled at the tavern patrons as well, "today, the sons and daughters of Brand make a stand against the evil that has undone our lands. These villains will not go unpunished this day. If you have a ranged weapon, join me and my brother Masef upon the roof. If you prefer to stand and fight with hand or weapon, remain on this floor and dispatch anyone who enters. Tonight, the children of Brand of the Nightwood have a Blood Debt to collect and we are taking payment here!" He looked at the crowd and yelled again at his siblings, "Ashira! Beren! Keira! Grey! In the name of our father, we stand!"

Loden turned to the stairs chasing after Masef hoping that everyone would do what was expected. He knew he would fight and die if need be. He reached the roof and moved wtihout haste to the edge as he readied his bow. He grasped for an arrow, notched it and scanned for a target.

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

It all escalated very quickly, and to most men that would be off putting. To Beren however, he perked up as if a hound had both lifted its head and ears, erect and wary. He turned and saw Masef (Masef!) running out into the Tavern, spouting warnings and orders, followed by his trusting brother Loden following suit with orders of his own. Beren had never been one to follow anything but his ideals without question, but he trusted his brothers and knew something was happening right this moment that could mean their very lives. His callused fists clenched, and while he was indeed glad he had the foresight to bring his weapons in, he knew he wouldn't use them initially. Not yet.

Bright brown eyes of sorrow and heartfelt warmth faded away into dark orbs of stern fire. He felt a wave of energy surge through his body, and after one deep breath, he was ready for war. As the men and women streamed out into the streets, it gave the siblings opportunity to not only see the enemy coming, but to face them one or two at a time. One brigand with a sword strode through the sea of people, bumping and struggling before leaping out into the Tavern proper. Beren was already before him, a powerful kick sending the man into the wall. He staggered, but caught himself and sliced at the Ranger Monk. The young man ducked, pushed upon the flat of the blade to send it wide while simultaneously kicking the man's left ankle. His free palm shot up and hit the brigand in the throat. One last punch to the temple sent him down.

Another opponent sought an easy kill by stabbing Beren in the back, but hard years of training and the past few years of adventuring had taught him to mind his surroundings. He spun, leg and foot leading in a roundhouse that sent the surprised man knocking into a table. His sword had slashed wildly during his fall, cutting Beren across the thigh. The blood seeped down into his maroon pants. He didn't have time to consider any pain. He could see more men spilling in, and he leaped backwards in a roll, to land next to his siblings. His Axe and Staff was beside him a few chairs over. The Staff was too big for such close quarters. If the fighting got any more fierce, he'd grab his Axe.

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

Ashira wished this reunion with her siblings could last forever, this moment was so refreshing on her grief heavy heart. It was such a joy to have them back, even if for a short time. Once the business of Brand's death was over with, she had a feeling they'd all be off on their own again. And she'd be here, trying to take their father's place, and never being able to be the person he was. Maybe after a time she would start taking on orphans of her own, continuing his legacy. But for now she would stick with the stuff in the Nightwood, it was a good start. Maybe she could convince one or two of them to stay, but even that would be a major stretch.

Suddenly, everything was changing quickly. they were being guided towards the back room, where two more of their siblings were waiting. Ashira didn't even have time to hug Masef, whom she had always been rather fond of, before Kiera sensed the presence of people outside. Then there was talk about starting a war. Ashira thought it was stupid, making a stand here where innocent people could get hurt. But every time she tried to open her mouth, she was ignored. A heavy, annoyed sigh escaped her lips. There was no way she was going to let her siblings fight along, so she had no choice but to go with them, or get left behind.

It looked like the plan was to send the archers to the roof and have them attack from there. That put all their ranged in one place. And while that was a number of the siblings, it wasn't a good idea. So while her ranged siblings went the roof, she stayed below. The few short ranged fighters they had needed some support inside the building as well. Ashira was an expert in free-running and climbing, so it was only a short run and few leaps later that she was perched on the supportive beam that ran across the top of the building. She had one knee planted on the beam, along with the other foot. In another smooth motion the longbow was off her back, and an arrow was notched into place.

"I have your backs!" She called to her siblings who were fighting below. Anybody who didn't know her would think that she was a sitting duck up on that beam, but she actually had a ton of room to move. She had her bow trained not on the door, but on her siblings, ready to fire if any of them needed aid. She saw that Beren had already taken a shot, but that it wasn't too bad, it could be taken care of later. Ashira loosed the arrow, and before even seeing where it landed, had another one nocked. The arrow sunk into the throat of a brigand who was trying to sneak up behind Varrick. The man clawed at it for a moment before dropping to the ground, his death was a quick one. Ashira wouldn't be as merciful to the son of bitch who executed Brand.

Death is never clean.

The sound of a door thudding open had barely touched her ears, and even before Keira had time to turn she felt a psychic concussion against her senses, the feeling of a soul being split all too unwillingly from its body. She felt dizzy, one hand lashing out to grab the edge of the table, the other still clutching the press handle, a boot scraping on the tavern floor to catch herself. In her strange vision, the swirling whorls of will and life and thought went dim for the briefest moment, a pulse of…something that flickered not only through her, but through the fabric of the world itself.

She barely heard the others clattering up stairs, slamming doors, roaring at the patrons and one another. She could feel their fear, though, and their anger, and their excitement. Kiera shook her head and blinked, her perceptions coming back to themselves, and she saw how that cocktail of emotions leapt from person to person on tides of thought and intention. Most of the tavern’s patrons darted into the street, desperate to be away from what they knew would be madness and violence, and Kiera didn’t blame them. She saw the fires of their terror and their uncertainty, stoked by months of being under the dubious authority of the King. A handful - some drunken, some less so - stayed behind, hands on table legs or their own less than ideal weapons.

They’re going to get killed, Kiera thought, looking at those who stayed, And we’ll be the ones to blame. We were meant to be more subtle than this. If we hadn't come, nobody would care about this village. Still…

She looked at the tavern, the wooden walls, the bottles of spirits behind the bar, the fire still burning in the hearth. There were too many things to go wrong here, too many other people to get hurt, and she felt muscles tighten on themselves with apprehension. With a start, she heard the sound of blades leaving their sheaths, then the crack of fists on bone, the subtle sounds of the fragile parts of a body collapsing in on one another. That same feeling of life cut short rippled through Kiera's mind, riding first on the sound of a blade in flesh, and again on the hissing sound of an arrow. She didn't stumble this time, though not because the impressions were any more pleasant - if anything, each was more unwelcome than the last. With a soft grunt, Kiera straightened and turned into the room, getting her balance.

Three men lay on the floor, one with his fingers still wrapped around a length of wood sticking from his neck. Kiera heard noises from above, saw Ashira balanced on a beam, her bow drawn. To every side, violence. In the air, shimmering between the walls, the people, the chairs and tables, Kiera saw tightly-coiled chaos, ready to scythe through the town, the countryside, and beyond. She swallowed. The air reeked of blood and worse, but for the skin of a moment, everything seemed to still. Kiera pulled in a long breath, smelled the smoke from the tavern's cook-fire, but, to her immense relief, not yet from bottles of burning oil. In her strange vision, the patterns of life around her flowed, swirled, brightened, sharpened. She turned her body, looking out the tavern's open front door, then nodded to herself.

"Enough," Kiera said. Her voice was quiet but spread through the room like a drop of ink in clear water. "There is another way than this."

Kiera stepped away from the rest of Brand's wards, toward the tavern's door. Overhead, a breeze caught the old sign and made it creak again, the squeak adding not so much a noise, but a texture to the tense, thick quiet. She rolled the fingers of her free hand, felt her knuckles pop, and spread her awareness away from her, sending her own will in a rolling wave ahead and to every side. Her skin tingled, her mind still not entirely familiar with the things those strange, masked wizards taught her when she left the Nightwood. But after a moment of uncertainty, she felt them, saw the way they pulled on the world around them, brilliant in her perceptions. The edges of swords flared in her vision along with iron-banded maces, the sleek curves of a crossbow's springs and, smallest but by no means the least, the fine steel heads of the bolts, deadly and vicious.

She breathed out slowly, her arms loose at her sides, and passed through the tavern's threshold at a walk, each step careful and deliberate. Only part of her mind studied the figures ahead of her, one large, one less so. The greater part studied those crossbows, one to each side. She saw their steel tips move, but not the people holding them - they were, after all, not the dangerous part. She took another step, and tipped her mind again, moving thorugh the mental paths she'd spent the best part of a decade learning. Power - no, not power, not strength, but something else - gathered around her, a potential waiting to be unleashed, and Kiera relaxed. She took another step toward the larger man, not far enough to need to look up at him, but not so far that she would need to raise her voice.

"Come to surrender?" He said. Kiera thought she could see a smug smile on his face, but she was focused on other things. She barely heard his voice, if she was being honest with herself.

"Not precisely," Kiera said, her strange, liquid accent making the words musical.

"So you're offering something else, then?" another man said, making a rude gesture with one hand, his hips rolling forward.

"I would like you to carry a message," Kiera said turning her blind gaze to the taller man, "To the King, if you're able."

"And what might that be?" The larger man said with a rough laugh. Even through her strange vision, Kiera could see a set of captain's markings on his jacket.

"That we let you leave with your lives," Kiera said, "And that we have business in the Nightwood. And then we have business with him."

The captain paused and looked down at Kiera, then belted out a full-throated, roaring laugh. He kept at it for several seconds, then raised one arm and pointed at Kiera, still laughing.

To her right, Kiera felt a crossbow bolt rise in a swift motion, coming to a rest at a man's shoulder level. She turned her head toward the bow, felt her shoulders tense, her pulse skip a beat. Her fingers made a short, sharp motion at her side, and she sent a lance of that potential she held away from herself, tendrils of her will wrapping around the bolt. She knew, from painful and nearly-fatal experience, that she couldn't stop the thing in mid-flight. However, she could change its direction - provided she knew it was there to begin with. The man fired and the bolt, nudged off-target by Kiera's will, hammered into the side of the tavern with a sound like an axe on a block.

The second man had already risen by the time Keira focused again, and she had far less time to push on the projectile. The bow rattled, and this bolt flitted by her ear so closely she felt her hair flutter at its passing. To her relief, it still found purchase on nothing but the door behind her. Without time to worry, Kiera took another step forward, still facing the larger man, most of her awareness still focused on the weight the weapons around her put on the world. Crossbow bolts were one thing, but a sword with a will behind it - she would have to rely on other skills, honed long ago, should it come to that. She took another step, calm and smooth and slow. The man had, to her immense satisfaction, stopped laughing.

"The ranger, Brand. You've heard stories of him, yes?" Kiera said, her voice still slow, calm, quiet. "The stories I hear are that he took a dozen of the King's men with him when he went beyond the Doors of Stone."

"He's dead all the same," the captain said, "What's your point?" Kiera heard less confidence in his voice. Good.

"You've heard the stories of the children he raised - the orphans and the lost and the abandoned. His wards. His legacy," Kiera said.

The big man said nothing.

"Half a dozen of them are behind me," Kiera said, "And their hearts are aching, their wills are filled to bursting with violence and rage. Four of your men are already dead, but they would see every one of you return to the earth. This is not a fight you can win. The dead know. Take our message to the King and go. Leave this town, and take your men with you."

"You want to start a war with the King?" The captain said, incredulous.

"No," Kiera said, "That war has already begun. It began when Bloody Harold murdered the Ranger in the forest." She took another step, now only a few strides from the man, "I am offering you the chance to not be one of that war's victims. Go. Deliver our message, then spend the rest of your days drinking your way through the capital. Or you can die here, and the birds will pick you clean."

The captain looked at Kiera, his hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword at his hip, then up at the tavern. Kiera knew there would be others of Brand's wards at the windows already, bows drawn taut. Even out here, she could still feel the swirling, intoxicating aura of their desire to do violence, to extract some kind of vengeance from anyone wearing the King's colours, threatening to swallow her own mind. She understood the rage, the helplessness, the pain - but these men were not their prey. She hoped they would choose not to make themselves an obstacle.

"Fine," the captain said, "God's balls, fine. What do we care about this pisshole town for anyway?" He raised a hand, waved it lazily behind him. "You know this isn't the end," The captain said, turning, "He'll come for you. With more than just men."

"I am sure he will," Kiera said, "But that is a road we can both walk."

The captain grunted and turned, his heavy tread leaving puffs in the dirt under his boots. One by one, the remaining members of the town's garrison put their weapons away, some quickly, others with more reluctance. Within a handful of minutes, all Kiera saw were retreating figures, each still a blaze of will and fire to her - though, of course, ones she would prefer not to encounter again. She pulled in a long breath, slowly blew it out, and let the strange power she had gathered to herself return to the world, vanishing back into the scintillating, coruscating fabric of reality to every side. Her chest rose again and she turned, walking slowly back to the tavern.

"They are gone," Kiera said, stepping back into the tavern, "Though I suspect we will be seeing at least a few of them again." She looked at her companions, "And possibly sooner than we'd like. But before that, we have our respects to offer, I think.." She looked up, saw Ashira's bow still drawn tight, "Can you show us where he fell?"

@Flagg@NickTrano@HeySeuss@R31GN@Gunther@AirBender@POOHEAD189

Masef had drawn and had Qazar giving very violent advice, no doubt angling for a way to get a greater foothold in his psyche. Things like, "BURN THEM" and other helpful advice. Masef almost gave in and then Gods help him.

He'd learned to concentrate past Qazar and put him in a mental box, a prison, and part of that was the discipline of the bow. He sighted down the bow at the enemy with the synergy of muscle and eye, picking the point the land the arrow when Kiera did what she did. He relaxed an iota, as he watched the garrison start to relent. He slid back down to the ground floor, feeling oddly unfulfilled, but still grateful for an anticlimactic outcome.

It was just as well, he had worries about the consequences of a bloody struggle in Bosfyrd itself, but he had not the tongue or the desire for diplomacy. His father's death sent his blood singing, had him hungering for a fight. There were too many voices in his head, Qazar's for one, then the one that compelled him up the Pilgrim Road in the first place. That second voice was important, because when Kiera asked Ashira to show them where Brand fell, he felt that very same compulsion crash down on him.

He looked a little peaked from the whole confrontation. The excitement plus the war of compulsions in his skull was a wearing trial. So he was a shade worn-sounding when he added his agreement to the discussion, "Aye, it's better this way. Pay our respects to him, then start the fight on our terms in our place."

On the other hand, he knew that the garrison was still there, and there would be consequences to this action, including for the village, "The faster we move, the better. This is Barkstead's former territory, and I expect the revolt started here and the news will travel fast. We need to be faster and get out of this place. All we can do now by lingering overlong is bring retribution on the town."

Qazar was able to sneer before Masef told him, again, to shut up.

@Flagg@Naril@R31GN@Gunther@Airbender@POOHEAD189@NickTrano

Beren's fists were out and face as hard as stone, staring at the next man with the audacity to continue this farce and come at him. But he was called off. They all were it seemed. The men filtered away into the night, casting looks of fear and anger at Brand's adopted children as they did so. Beren simply drew himself up, placed his palms together, and breathed deeply.

He approached Keira and gave a small bow. "You did good." he said, his tone as familiar as a family member. The young man looked around the room, drawing in more calming breaths as he did so. It was only right for them to spare whom they could, just as it was right for them to fight for what they believed in. Brand would want justice enacted, but not wanton violence.

He went over to gather his things, strapping them to his chest and sash belt before making his way over to the others once again. Brown eyes ready and steeled, with a tenderness behind them for those that looked closely. "I can pray for him." he spoke up. "If we hold a small service, that is. Though I suspect we'll all pay our respects in our own way."

@Flagg@Naril@R31GN@Gunther@Airbender@POOHEAD189@NickTrano

Grey sat eerily still as the chaos unfolded around him. Within what seemed to be moments, a happy reunion turned into the beginnings of war. He heard Masef, a voice from far in his past shouting from another room, as well as one he couldn't quite put a finger on. His face turned to a sour grimace as violence broke out around him. Instinctively, he dropped his cloak and took a firm hold of Jael and Zarall's hilts. A fury burned behind his eyes, strangely dry in these moments, as his knuckles turned white around the cold steel of his weapons. Grey let out a deep sigh that seemed to shudder the very mass of his scarred flesh, before he let go of the weapons, still in their hilts.

In almost any other circumstance, Grey would be roaring for battle, the element in which he thrives best. But this was certainly a different case for Grey. Though many would find having the news of their 'father' coming to an untimely end enraging, the news was sobering to Grey. Experiencing the same shock one might after a particularly nasty debilitating blow, Grey stood amidst the fighting, making his way to the door. He knew not what his goal was -there would be no true gain in walking away at this moment and he would likely be walking into more violence. Yet still, he needed to do something, and he couldn't trust himself to fight. In this moment of raw emotion, could he really fight off these aggressors with restraint? He didn't dare test his willpower.

He brushed through the now frenzying crowd of entropic bodies, cloak grasped tight in one arm, dented tin cup in the other. Sickly sweet ale still dripped down his hand as he walked, eyes low to the floor. Amidst the fray, one of the brigands found Grey in his sights, and charged with a vicious downward blow of his sword. Grey let out an angry shout as he responded in force. His hand rose up to meet the blow, fist sliding just to the side of the blade so the blow was deflected off of his metal plated wrist, as his other hand pulled back quickly simultaneously dropping the crumpled pint. The adversary found his face hitting the ground on the same beat that the trashed flagon rang across hard wooden planks.

Almost immediately after the savage blow, Grey found himself kneeling by the man as blood pooled beneath his face, streaming from his nose. Grey turned the man on his back, and looked him up and down with an expression of fear plastering his face. He had let go of his self control, and this poor sap had paid the price. A sigh of relief escaped Grey's ajar mouth when he saw a ragged breath stagger the mans chest. With a grunt, Grey lifted the man from the floor, and shifted the limp body to a chair, grimacing as the head swung wildly. A locket containing a portrait of an innocent young face had escaped the man's bosom in the fray -Grey took care to tuck the golden trinket back beneath the unconscious man's clothing.

A shout from behind warned Grey of danger, and he turned rather wildly to meet it, fists raised, only to find it wasn't directed at him. A man fell to the ground, his blood painting a picture of death on the floor beneath -the brush a long wooden arrow. Grey looked to the air to find the shooter, taking far too long to realize that the killer was one of his own kin. He narrowed his eyes as they locked on the figure of Ashira shifting around the rafters. He mightn't have even noticed her had it not been for a telltale beam of light that broke through the ceiling. Though his stomach churned at the image of death that surrounded him, he forced himself to accept that it must've been necessary in self defense. He had to, for his family.

With a grunt of frustration, Grey turned his back and began again his march to the door, wading through the discord. It was a quiet voice that stopped him, and seemingly the world, as he was mere paces away from making his exit. The voice ran through his body like a ripple through a pond, both agitating and calming him. The speech itself was impressive -the results even moreso. Grey turned to face his kin as the garrison filtered away.

Grey's steely eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, putting his face directly in a beam of light. "Best we put our turmoil to rest, before we attempt toppling a king." Grey muttered, voice strained as that of a man who had trekked a desert only minutes earlier. "Thank you, Kiera." Grey said to the dark elf, his voice heavy with a strange mixture of sincerity and fatigue. His eyes shifted throughout the group as he put his cloak on once again, rubbing at his blocking arm. It groaned with a numb pain, though surprisingly less than he had expected.

The raven’s talons clicked faintly against the porcelain rim of the tub, biding for patience as the tub's occupant appeared otherwise engaged. Sachevia’s own clawlike digit snaked in languid patterns across the petal and oil fragranced water as shadowed eyes followed the succeeding ripples. Just beneath the surface her bruise tinted thumbnail seemed to elongate and pierce into her still winding index finger. The water clouded with a luminescent red, far too radiant for the diluted blood it pleased to mimic, twitching along with the miniature currents she was concocting. Lengthy strands in different states of disarray had been piled atop her head in a bulky adumbral halo, ceding exposure to her despondent expression. Since she had received the missive her lips had pursed into a grimace, one that now parted for barely audible vocalizations…

_{ᴅ ᴇ ᴠ ᴇ ɴ ᴛ ʀ ᴇ ɪ ɴ ғ ᴇ ʀ ɪ ᴄ ʟ ᴀ ᴍ ᴀ ᴠ ɪ}
ᴀʀʙɪᴛʀɪᴏ ɪᴜᴅɪᴄɪᴜᴍ ᴠᴇɴɪᴇᴛ ᴄɪᴛᴏ
^{ᴇ ᴛ ᴅ ᴇ ᴍᴀɴᴜ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴜᴍ ᴍᴇᴏʀᴜᴍ s ᴀ ɴ ɢ ᴜ ɪ ɴ ᴇ}

She was no stranger to death, in fact she found him to be one of her favorite bedfellows; but loss had remained an elusive conquest. She tried to link to past experience in hopes it would distill her current mood, only to find her retinue quite bleak. Instead memories of Brand came to her and knuckles clenched to a ghost white hue around the raven’s missive.

She had sent a handmaiden to Nightwood as the Mad King had grown more brazen, a decision she had second guessed as a waste of her resources, but now she would at least find some twisted glee in her preparation. It had been a mere day, her adopted siblings would be uniting soon, but his death would not satiate her. Death was a grace that this King had not yet afforded and she would be damned if someone killed the bastard before she got her claws into him. This thought was boiling within her, coaxing darkness, when the raven cawed and began a low cackle, breaking her reverie. She turned to the bird, about to chastise the feral beast and send it back to its unkindness, but instead she followed it’s beady gaze to the door as it began to open.

The man that stepped through the door was unexceptional to the eye; and to the touch if she was being honest, but he was an exceedingly well connected and wealthy merchant. Her demeanor changed; a debauched smile painted her lips and the hue of her eyes settled on a more pleasing tint. The raven’s note, already crumpled in her hand, was dragged beneath the water, the ink dissipating between her knuckles and spreading it’s ill favor with the likes of honeysuckle and lilacs in the still swirling water. If her ruminations had been noticed the man failed to react, instead he focused a puzzled gaze on the now quiet raven who returned the favor in kind.

The raven was forgotten as she rose out of the tub and his attention became solely engrossed with his conquest. She gestured with a coaxing finger towards a gown set to the side as he licked across gluttonous lips and made a grunting sound, one Sachevia had come to associate with his desire. It reminded her of a pig that had just located a truffle. She wouldn’t miss him, she just hoped the Sirens wouldn’t notice her absence until she finished with the Mad King.

Lᴀᴛᴇʀ Tʜᴀᴛ Nɪɢʜᴛ…

The obscurity of nightfall wrapped around the ebon carriage, devouring it so that the souls within bobbed along in a state of purgatory, unconcerned with the boogeymen that skulked on either side of their cursed path. Locked within the carriage Sachevia’s thoughts expanded and contracted with her breaths, dizzying yet driven by a hazardous fuel. Parchment sat before her with the waiting ravens capering about the carriage as if feeding on the girl’s nervous excitement.

Her first letter would be to the King, written in the faux hand of one of his confidants in the capital, one whose name had slipped from the wealthy merchant before facilitated sleep overtook him. She offered herself as a gift, for the Mad King was said to enjoy the gifts of subservience, along with a reasonable amount of funds and well wishes for his safety and continued reign; better to cover all bases of temptation. She debated the second letter, the blank paper shooting judgmental glares in her direction until finally ink was pressed upon it.

Dearest Siblings,
My condolences in this time of loss. I doubt I will be able to attend the burial of our Father and for that I apologize. I may be able to facilitate it's likelihood though; I have received word the mad King has hidden Brand's body amongst a cart of taxes heading on the Harthbyrn route to Caerwick.

I will not apologize for what I must do, but know that I am with you. The King will pay for his trespasses against Brand in a manner of pain beyond the depths of burden I wish for your souls. If I fail, please rip the bastard into multiple pieces. Slowly.
Always, The Witch of the Brood

It was impossible for her to imagine any of Brand’s to be capable of the atrocities she was compiling in a wretched menagerie of justice. They had the abilities; in fact, most of them boasted weaponry skills, even as children, that were exemplary. But how many of them could shove a choke pear down the Mad King’s throat, twisting it tighter every couple of minutes as the King’s tears fell and blended with the blood that seeped from his tearing flesh?

She was getting excited, and ahead of herself.

Truly she couldn’t even imagine them as adults. Kiera perhaps, but she hadn’t heard any news of Kiera in years, so she was unsure if the dark elf would even make it back to Nightwood. She couldn’t remember Kiera being cruel, despite the lingering stigmatism of her people. Loden then? It may have been over a decade, but the thought of Loden torturing someone elicited an audible snort from the girl. No, Brand did not raise the cruel…

...with one exception.

She felt an indescribable pang flutter across her being, a confusing feeling, remorse? Sadness? Heartburn? Loneliness? She couldn’t recall the emotion and for a moment the vixen witch second guessed herself. Did she miss her siblings? Was she simply sad about Brand? She tied the missive to the foot of a raven and hoped the uncomfortable thoughts would depart soon. She still had to finalize her insertion into the King’s circle.

She whispered something to the raven who chortled a response, the ghoulish vocalization mimicking Sachevia’s in a distorted fashion so that she repeated “Loden” until she seemed pleased with the raven’s rendition. One last time the bird released an ominous variation of “Loden” and then it fluttered into the abyss that yawned beyond the carriage, towards Nightwood.

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

Sachevia was the sibling he never expected to hear from again. She was, far and away, Brand's true problem child, and not a warm and fuzzy one when it came to kids running around. So Masef never really got to know her quite as well as the others. He was all of nine when she headed off into the world. But the information on Brand's body being transported? That was something else. It changed plans, demanded an immediate reaction. There would be no burial without the body and the body was on the move. Harold apparently cared a lot about the money and the body. What he would use the body for, Masef had no clue. The note had been scanty on any detailed plans, but he was imagining some sort of symbolic display on Harold's part. Brand of the Nightwood was one of the kingdom's heroes, at one time.

The information was good. It took a few days of movement and tracking, moving through the wood and coming out along the Harthbym road as only rangers could. It was not a feat that could be accomplished by foot soldiers or cavalry. It was strange for Masef to be surrounded by the deep, lush ground foliage of the wood, so different from the desert lands he'd inhabited the last few years. There were no paths to navigate for the uninitiated, much less for a troop of soldiers, but he still knew the landmarks. It allowed them the chance to get there and intercept. The wagons were on the road, chests lashed to their beds. One of them held a much larger box. That was where the simplicity ended. There were something akin to thirty or so men, some riding on the three wagons, others on horseback. Liveried knights and men-at-arms to a man with the royal heraldry. Mail, halberds, swords, axes and lances. This would be no simple fight.

They had the luxury of time to plan things, because the movement of the wagon dictated the pace. The knights and the men at arms moved with the wagons. The road was hard-packed earth, sunken down by successive generations of traffic into the earth. It gave about two or three feet of elevation for those in the wooded areas, and it was clear that the men at arms were concerned for some sort of rebel holdouts, perhaps baron's men or bandits. Qazar, of course, gave his advice, but that was predictable. Qazar was always seeking more of a foothold. There was a core of fire and death that swirled in his consciousness, begging to be reached into, but there was another source of magic there that he could touch even before Qazar, though it was tentative, weaker. It didn't hold the strings attached, it was naturally a part of him rather than some old Warlock-King, looking for a release from his prison. More easy-going once, Masef forced himself to become more deliberate because he was Qazar's jailer. He feared the necessity of having to bring Qazar out and Qazar knew this. The old bastard was eager to interact with the world, to touch it once more.

Among the brush, his cloak breaking his shape up in the natural camouflage, he waited with a bow in hand and a bodkin arrow laying on it, nocked but not drawn. He was already regulating his breath, drawing on exercises he employed to clear his mind. Brand had taught those to him once, because he'd shown a spark or two of ability in the past. They'd spent more time on it than some of the others had with Brand. Always the calmness, always the center. He needed those skills more than ever as he used Brand's skills to dismantle Qazar's influence and stick the old tyrant back into his cage. It was a concentration exercise for archery, but Masef and Brand turned it into something more. Control it or it controlled you, Brand always said. The mysteries surrounding Masef's heritage drove him South, and Brand had bid him farewell. Come back and see me when you have your answers. It will be a story to hear, I'm sure, the old ranger had said.

Masef had stories now, but telling them, perhaps, to his siblings wouldn't be the same as sitting with Brand in his Nightwood cottage over some mulled cider, roasting a hunted deer and regaling the old man with tales of the sights he'd seen. That anticipated experience was forever denied him. Qazar cackled in his skull, Masef told the old Tyrant to shut up.

I will, Masef told Brand. There was a physical compulsion to come back to the Nightwood, and it came back stronger as he saw Brand's casket. Others might have balked at the idea of such opposition, but Masef made a promise. And when Masef made promises, they were binding. He'd learned that the hard way.

He had his first target picked, a man that had gold glinting on his belt buckle and sword, mounted on horseback. He had the look of someone in charge, a knight or perhaps even a lordling. He had a squire alongside, probably the scion of another house. Varrick might know whom was whom, but Masef never paid too close attention to the intricacies of Vendland's nobility. He knew that they died like other men. And if you put an arrow in a man, he died.

But after the first arrow flew, the war would be truly on.

@Flagg@Naril@R31GN@Gunther@Airbender@POOHEAD189@NickTrano@Noxious

@Heyseuss @Naril @R31GN @Gunther @Airbender @POOHEAD189 @NickTrano @Noxious

Loden stood on the roof watching customers flee the "The Scuffed Boots". He noticed the hired men running toward the building. A few made it inside, but only after he was able to dispatch one with his nocked arrow. Astonished by her actions, he witnessed a commotion coming from the front door. Kiera stepped outside to negotiate. He would afford her an opportunity to try what she might, prepared to continue the fight if needed. Kiera allowed the men safe passage out of Bosfyrd, but only with their ability to pay their final respect to Brand. The Rangers shall take care of that necessity first. No one would deny them or Brand of what is due to him.

Over the next few days, more of Brand's children arrived in Bosfyrd or along the road to Nightwood. The newcomers were quickly filled in regarding the events at the tavern and joined the group heading into the Nightwood. Pamil Kumar, a dark-skinned Daramelsh woman with a buxom figure. She had been with Brand around the same time as Kiera and left when Loden was 14. She was twenty years old when she left. At age 35, Pamil claimed to have been blessed with the gift of magic. Pamil focused on Necromancy and Conjuration.

Krayton Mott had a similar background as Varrick Tuldar having lost his family to the Mad King. Lord Caeledor Mott was a vassal in the southwestern regions. In reward for his years of service to Harold's father, he received an execution by hanging for his efforts. The Infant, Krayton was deposited at Brand's footsteps about a year before Masef. At age 23, Krayton stands 6'5" tall and built to withstand and deliver heavy blows. He had trained in the use of the broadsword and wore some of the best armor available just as his brother, Varrick. Krayton possessed a certain level of humility found among Brand's Rangers, but uncommon to those of Noble birth.

The third Ranger who joined the group was Danton Raynor, a slight man with dark set eyes and long black hair. He dressed the part of a Ranger, but carried no bow or quiver. He also wore a cloak and carried a staff. He claimed to practice magic, focusing on enchantments, Illusions and abjuration spells. Some have said Danton was a bit touched in the head, witnessed talking to himself, whispering under his breath. It was as though he were talking to someone else, but he was speaking both sides of the conversation. Danton was with Brand around the same time as Sachevia. They had formed a friendship, but it could only be described as odd, at best. At age 30, Danton just looks like a mess, paranoia overwhelming his senses. He muttered about someone possibly coming to get him. Jumpy and jittery are adjectives that best describe this wizard.

Loden was with Masef and the rest of his siblings in the Nightwood, reviewing what they knew and what they did not know. While trying to determine where Brand's body was, something odd happened. The flapping of bird's wings, a common event in any forest could be heard above them. But this Raven cawed Loden's name. It was unmistakable that a bird spoke Loden's name, the one thing that caught everyone's attention. Conversation stopped as it was quite discernible. Loden looked as Ashira, seated near him, "Did that bird just say my name?" he asked in surprise, eyes fixed wide.

The bird appeared to hover in the air for several seconds and then landed on a tree stump. The bird appeared to look around the gathering at everyone in attendance. A jet black raven looked from person to person. Everyone mesmerized by the fact the bird spoke the name, "Loden". No one immediately noticed the small paper around its leg. When the small creature danced around on a tree stump, attempting to flick its leg up in the air, then the note came to light.

Loden realized the bird was not troubled but had a note attached to its leg. He gently grabbed the bird and removed the note. The bird quickly flew away once out of Loden's hands, returning from where it came. Loden read the note aloud, "Dearest Siblings, My condolences in this time of loss. I doubt I will be able to attend the burial of our Father and for that I apologize. I may be able to facilitate it's likelihood though; I have received word the mad King has hidden Brand's body amongst a car of taxes heading on the Harthbyrn route to Caerwick. I will not apologize for what I must do, but know that I am with you. The King will pay for his trespasses against Brand in a manner of pain beyond the depths of burden I wish for your souls. If I fail, please rip the bastard into multiple pieces. Slowly. signed, Always, The Witch of the Brood." Loden dropped his arm, note in hand and looked at the faces of his brothers and sisters. Initially, he had a quizzical look on his face, not realizing who wrote the missive, until he caught a knowing smile from an older sister. Then it hit him, "Sachevia! Sachevia sent this note! It has to be her! Remember?! Dark hair, pale skin. She was mostly quiet, alone, but when she did speak, she had this cynical sense of humor. She claimed to be descended from a family of witches."

In a rare bout of lucidity, Danton spoke up, smiling, "I know Sachevia! She was such a sweet girl. I really admired her. She got me. You know what I mean? She really got me. I felt very connected with her. I really was hoping to find her again someday. Maybe we will soon enough?" Danton's spirits brightened at the mention of Sachevia's name. He felt he was on common ground with the young witch; for he considered himself a wizard.

It did not take long for Brand's children to formulate a plan. They headed for the Harthbyrn Road as soon as possible, locating the best area to ambush the caravan of wagons and mounted men at arms. Those preferring ranged weapons positioned themselves on elevated terrain or in trees while those who preferred melee weapons were up close to the road, concealed in the underbrush.

Before the King's Men appeared before the Ranger's ambush, Loden silently krept forward to where Beren, Varrick, Grey and Krayton lay in waiting. "I just wanted to wish you brothers good fortune in this fight." He then proceeded to touch each one on the back or shoulder. He thought of each one performing their tasks, either with a sword or whatever weapon they chose to use. Each one would feel keenly aware of their skill level and increase their ability slightly as though they had an energy and accuracy boost to their skill level. Once he had properly provided his brothers an edge to their fighting ability, he returned to where Masif and Ashira hid waiting for the caravan to approach.

The mounted men were very well equipped, possessing high caliber weapons and newly minted armor. This was going to be a tough fight, especially since the escort outnumbered the rangers at least two to one. Confidence was in abundance amongst the Rangers.

As Masef unleashed his first bodkin arrow, Loden Grimm, standing ten yards away, did the same. His arrow pierced the gorget of the closer men-at-arms. The shaft visibly stuck in the man's throat with the heavy bodkin tip protruding out the back of his neck, small drips of blood oozing out the back. The man knew not that he was dead; nor did his comrades until he slowly slid from his saddle, crumpling on the ground below.

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

Beren spent his time with his siblings for a few days, catching up with them and sharing stories of his adventures these past few years. Varrick, Masef, Keira, and Ashira he spoke to about his past experiences mostly, if only to share with them since he had grown naturally closer to Loden and Grey growing up. As his conversation continued, he saw he needn't worry. They were his siblings just as much as the rest, and soon he felt like he was truly home again. He told them of the troll that nearly took his arm off, and the DeathKnight he'd barely managed to slay, being saved by a well timed holy spell from a companion. When he wasn't around them, he was helping repair some of the damage to the tavern and spending alone time meditating above the structure.

Pamil Kumar, Krayton Mott, Danton Raynor were names he had not heard in years, and greeted them just as warmly as the others. Pamil had even darker skin than he himself, which he wasn't used to. Her manner was both off putting but endearing in a way. Naturally, as idealist and religious as Beren was, necromancy was hard to accept. He felt a similar way toward Danton's activities as well. But Pamil's conjuration was a curiosity to him, as was some of Danton's tricks. He was never well versed in magical arts, and asked questions about their skills often. Krayton he got along with famously. In fact the two even sparred once with staff and sword.

But the pleasantness turned into duty for family and honor. Beren switched gears completely the day they were to leave, his amiable and warmth hardening into something more reserved and even silently dangerous. It was only noticeable to those who cared to look, but he withdrew into himself, as if he was in a moving mediation, speaking to his siblings less and marching through the miles of forest with stoic endurance. He had brought his Bow and Axe, leaving his staff to be picked up at a safe location. Every sibling moved with practiced grace, despite all of their differing strengths and abilities. He supposed it should be comforting, for it showed they all had a common purpose and history, if not common hearts.

The Caravan was armed with Knights and Men-at-Arms. They weren't lightly armed or armored, he noted. Beren had no idea what they were doing with Brand's body, but it mattered little. They wouldn't have it for long. Standing silent behind an oak tree at the edge of the tree line, Beren could see some of his siblings hiding further back into the forest. Some were in the trees themselves, and he would have joined them if he wasn't built for melee combat. With powerful legs and strong, skillful arms, he was going to charge in and wrest Brand's body from their corpses if need be. That didn't mean he wasn't going to take a versatile approach however. His recurve bow was in his hands, his back to the tree and the sounds of footsteps, hoof beats, and creaking wheels passing by filled his ears. He let out a breath, and gave a nod to those siblings behind him. Drawing his bow, Loden and Varrick let loose their arrows just as Beren turned the corner and fired. His bodkin hit a Knight a fraction after the other arrows hit home. The missile struck and pierced the man's plate armor at his side. Beren fired a second shot as the man cried out, silencing him with an arrow to the chest. He stepped closer and fired another shot more wildly, punching into a Man-At-Arms's shoulder, before dropping his bow and taking out his Axe as men surged toward him. He blocked a downward slash from an arming sword with his Axe head, the clang of metal echoing across the pathway. @Gunther@HeySeuss@Noxious@R31GN@AirBender@Naril@NickTrano

The battle had barely begun when the enemy retreated. Kiera had just so happened to be able to convince them to do so. From her perched, Ashira eyed the Dark Elf suspiciously. Everything fell into place with the retreat far too well. While the rest of her siblings praised Kiera for a job well done, Ashira said nothing, letting her eyes do all the talking. She leaped down from her perch, landing in a crouched stance before rising to her feet. Apparently, her siblings wanted her to lead them to where Brand had been executed. Ashira stared down at the floor, eyes closed, for a moment, before reluctantly nodded.

As they entered the Nightwood, Ashira led the way. Intent on leading them to the place where Brand had been executed. As much as she wished she had been there, she was also glad that she hadn't been. Because who knew what kind of foolish things she would have done. Or if she would have even left that place alive. As they travelled, they came across several more of their siblings, who immediately joined their party. It was one night when they were sitting around discussing plans that something happened. Ashira's heightened Elvish senses thought nothing of the flapping of wings close by. She could hear dozens of birds flying around. The raven's caw almost sounded like a name. Loden, who was sitting next to her, asked her if the bird had just spoke his name. Ashira smiled, "It's been far too long since you were last here, brother. All the birds speak if you listen to them."

It was then that her siblings may have started to worry about her sanity. Spending long periods of time alone in the Nightwood may have not been good on her mental health, if she found herself talking to birds. While the others were surprised by the supposedly talking bird, Ashira noticed a scrap of white wrapped around It's leg, but thought nothing of it. She saw messenger birds all the time. Loden retrieved the note after it was apparently that it was for them, and read it aloud. Once it had become apparent who sent the note, Ashira snorted, not willing to trust a single letter of it. She had a certain deal of trust when it came to all of her siblings, some more than others of course, but there wasn't a single ounce of trust in her body for that freak. It was well known by her other siblings that Ashira had never grown to like Sachevia, let alone trust her, in the two short years she knew her.

While the others began making plans around the note, Ashira voiced her own opinion on the matter, which was promptly ignored. Due to that, Ashira hasn't spoken to any of her siblings since then, not even Masef, hard as it was not to talk to him. But still she stuck with them, her loyalty outweighing the fact that they had ignored her opinion. They tracked down the caravan, which apparently actually existed, and set up the ambush quickly.

Ashira was once again perched, but this time in a tree, on a branch that seemed too thin to hold her weight, but did so without even bending a little bit. She had an arrow at the ready, eyes trained on her first target. Then, it all began. Two of her siblings released arrows of their own, and she quickly followed suit. Her elevated position allowed her to hit different targets than her ranged siblings who preferred the ground. Her arrow shot between the slits of a man's visor, embedding itself in his eye socket. The same target she would have used if hunting prey. In this case, there was no difference between a deer and these men.

On their journey through the Nightwood, Grey was more than happy to be reunited with some of the others of Brand's brood. While Danton was a name and a face that he didn't remember all that well, he had heard tales. Pamil and Krayton he was certainly familiar with, and he had greeted them with open arms. Nothing but tragic was the death of Brand, though it had lead to the reunion of this patchwork family of rangers, so perhaps it was for the better? Only time and the death of Bloody Harold could tell.

A cacophony of violence and death painted itself across Grey's eyes as they tried to focus on the caravan, his subconscious screaming at him to show these men the same mercy that Brand was shown. Or just rip off their heads. The blond ranger shook his head slowly to dispel the imagery, clearing his head with a silent breath. Beneath his dappled brown hood, his eyes narrowed, flicking from side to side as he glanced at his brethren who laid in wait similarly. Beren, Varrick, and Krayton were very near, and he gave them a smile as the convoy approached ever closer. His eyes scanned the foliage for those in the ambush hidden away with bows and arrows. Ashira he was able to pick out of the forest scenery though he might've had less luck had he not known where and what to look for.

He nodded to Loden, trying not to jump in surprise when the ranger came up behind and graced them with wishes of good fortune. "Goddamn rangers, always so quiet." Grey thought to himself, completely understanding the irony of the statement. At times he was truly envious of the ability to move with such speed and stealth -he himself possessed the grace of a dehydrated camel in a snowstorm when it came to moving silently. Even here in the ambush, simply lying it wait, it was near impossible for him to stay still without fidgeting.

When his brothers and sisters let loose their hail of arrows on the guards, dropping many from their horses, Grey charged almost gleefully into the fray. Seeing Beren emerge from cover as well, Grey used the mans bow-fire as cover, weaving through those that Beren dropped from the combat. As he ran, Grey again dropped his cloak, letting it fall from his shoulders to being clasped tightly in one hand. His eyes locked with his target, one of the kings men running to engage with Beren. Taking advantage of the element of surprise, Grey threw his cloak, allowing the brown cloth to entangle itself around the helmet of the mercenary. In a swift motion, Grey pulled out his sword, and slammed the hilt into the head of his adversary. The man crumpled to the floor, losing consciousness almost instantly after the furious blow.

An arrow whizzed by Grey, narrowly missing as it thudded into the ground. His head whipped around to find the man who had shot at him, and locked eyes with a bow-wielding mercenary atop a horse just in time to catch the second arrow in his shoulder. Though his leather armor took most of the force out of the blow, it still penetrated his flesh. Grey growled in response, his damaged arm dropping the dull shortsword. With his good hand, he pulled his simple metal rod from its sheath and threw it underhanded at the man. It flew end over end in the air -a desperate maneuver but somehow it connected perfectly with the stomach of the bowman, winding him and dethroning him from his horse. Perhaps Loden's blessing had been more than just a wish for good fortune in the fight.

Before he could stop to celebrate this maneuver though, another mercenary was upon him. Grey was thrown to the ground by a powerful tackle coming from behind. He responded by throwing his elbow violently into the man's face, knocking him back. Grey took advantage of the momentary disorientation of the man to stand, and moved to pick up Zarall, his sword. Before he could quite reach the weapon, he was faced with a burning pain in his foot. The knife sticking out was fresh with blood, and the mercenary was already getting up. Rather than allow the mercenary to find his footing, Grey brought his forearm down on the man violently, metal sheathed blow knocking him back down. Grey pinned the man, putting one knee on his wrist, the other on his shoulder.

Eliciting a scream of pain from his own mouth, Grey pulled the arrow from his shoulder, and violently stabbed it into the mans hand -piercing flesh, bone, and ground alike. The kings man, it seemed, was far from out of the fight though, as he punched Grey in the face with a fury unmatched. The two scrapped on the ground, returning punches and kicks through their injury. As he bashed the man again and again with his limbs, Grey fought to keep the intrusive thoughts of death from his mind. "Mercy. Life. Forgiveness." Was the mantra he repeated mentally as his metal clad fist fell again and again on the mercenaries face.

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

The sun was sinking below the tree line by the time they arrived, Daigon and a small collection of armsmen on horseback. All human. All mean-looking sons of bitches.

They plodded into the center of town, where the mercenary captain swung down from the saddle and tied his horse off at the water trough in front of the general store.

The townsfolk, those stupid or brave enough to have hung around after Brand's protegees put arrows through the King's men, watched the mercenaries with confused trepidation.

Veredict Daigon smiled at them, signaled for his men to stay put, and sauntered over to the tavern, his glittering gaze wandering the town around him.

Sleepy little place. Everything wood and stone, thatched roofs hung thick with moss. Charming. The woods closed around the town on three sides, like the tide washing in around a boulder in the sand, and Daigon wondered idly if any vengeful orphans lurked in the shadowy treeline, tracking his movements with arrows notched.

He doubted it.

A bell tinkled as he pushed open the tavern's heavy oak door. His eyes fell first to the blood still staining the floorboards, then alighted on the tavern-keep. Thin old man, meeting his gaze. Nervous but defiant. Daigon nodded to him.

"Not a busy night in Bosfryd," he offered as he ambled over to the bar. The room was empty save for a few grizzled old men nursing mugs of ale and speaking in low and surly tones. They wore chainmail flecked with rust, old swords slung at their hips. One drew a dagger as Daigon passed by and plunged it into the thick wood of the table, snarling something about Harold's dogs.

Cute.

Daigon took a seat at the bar. He flicked a silver coin and then another onto the notched, ale-stained wood.

"Another round for my new friends," he said, tilting his head to the murderous-looking crew behind him, "And I'll have a dram of the strongest thing you've got."

The barkeep frowned and spat into the rushes, and muttered something about not serving the King's men.

"No?" asked Daigon with a laugh, "Well at least give these fellows a drink. They look like they need it."

"What do you want here?" asked the barkeep, "You ain't welcome."

"What I want..." said Daigon, eyes narrowing in faux-contemplation, "What I want...well, I s'pose I want a fuckin drink to start with, friend. Saint Forgil's gout, you Vendish are a dour brood. Would you rather I ride in here chopping off heads and exacting bloody vengeance?"

"Seems the King's way."

"Hard to deny that," said Daigon, "Hard to deny. Guess that means the ranger's kids were thinkin' more about their own vengeance than about you folk when they did in those sellswords then, eh?"

The barkeep scowled. "Brand was good to Bosfryd. A good man."

"I hear that," said Daigon, "I'd toast his name, if I had a drink to toast him with. A crime what was done to him."

"Don't think you can sweet talk your way into our graces," said one of the armed codgers at the table, "We know what you're doin'."

"Wasn't tryin' to sweet talk you, friend," said Daigon with a sly smile, "Was tryin' to get you drunk. But this fellow- what's your name?"

"Muttle, Joren Muttle," said the barkeep.

"Muttle, right," said Daigon, turning back to the old men, "Your friend Muttle here won't take my money."

"I ain't takin' the king's blood money," said Muttle.

"We all take the King's coin now," replied Daigon, "War's over."

"Brand's orphans are still fightin. They're gonna bring down your King," said one of the others.

Daigon shrugged, "Maybe so, maybe not. Maybe a handful of bravos with bows and arrows, kids who haven't seen twenty winters, maybe they can do what Barkstead couldn't. But they don't seem to care about Bosfryd enough to make sure it's around to see them do it. I rode into town with enough men to put everything here to torch and sword, just like old Harry's done plenty of times to towns what defied him. And I haven't seen any arrows fly. Or am I dead and these are the Gardens of Vara?"

The tavern was silent for a long moment.

"I'm not here to do anyone any wrong, and I'm not here to ask you to betray Brand's memory by informing on his kin," said Daigon, "I ain't a butcher, I'm a soldier, and if King Harry told me to burn a town down or kill a good man like Brand of Nightwood, he knows I'd tell him where he could put those orders. We can all agree Harry's no Alma the Gentle, but he don't want to rule over naught but dust and ashes, and you don't want your town caught in a war you can't fight."

More silence. Muttle began pouring everyone drinks and the flicker of a smirk passed over Daigon's face and was gone.

"All I'm saying here is keep neutral in this fight, as much as you can, 'specially should the orphans come back looking for aid. Next time leveler heads can't suggest to King Harry that he take the high road. Next time he sends in Forrestor Thalmy's boys or Veredict Daigon. And I don't have to tell you about those bastards."

"Twas that warlock Daigon what killed Brand," said Muttle, pushing a tumbler of something clear and eye watering across the bar, "A devil-conjurer they say."

"They say worse than that, friend," said Daigon, downing the drink, "Trust me. My point is, Harry may be a bastard, and he may have worse bastards working for him- and maybe Brand's kin will do some good and rid us of them, or maybe not. But this isn't your fight, and I don't want to see the women and childfolk of Bosfryd die for other men's fights."

"What do you want from us then, stranger?" said one of the old men.

"Another round," he said, and got a couple of laughs. Muttle poured him another and he threw a few more coins down on the bar, "One for everyone, Joren, and you too."

They all drank.

Daigon nodded at the patch of faded blood by the door. "What happened here, anyway? The rumors true? Can these kids really fight like the Beast awakened?"

"They ain't half bad," said Muttle, pouring a third round unbidden, "I'll say that. They ain't half bad. And some of them spellwrights, too. Might give that devil-fucking murdering sonofawhore Captain Daigon a run for it, magic-wise."

"That right?" asked Captain Daigon, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye," said one of the old men at the table, "The elf witch, for one. She hexed the guard captain. Sent the rest of the King's boys packin' without spillin' an ounce more blood, even with tempers running high and men already dead. And I wouldn't be surprised if the swarthy fellow, Masef his name was, had a bit of the glamour neither. Looked a bit touched to my eye."

"Masef, eh?" said Daigon, "No Vendish name, that."

"No, no, a Southron he is, from the Ibin tribes I think," said Muttle.

"It's Ibir, the Ibir tribes," said Daigon quietly, as though mostly to himself, "Come from the old city of Mari. The dead city. Nomads now."

"Oh, aye, I s'pose that's right. Always pokin' around ruins as a boy, Masef was. Always curious."

There was a pause.

"Curious curious," said Daigon, standing brusquely, "I must say gents, this has been...informative. Thank you for the hospitality, and keep in mind what I said about other men's wars. You ever need someone in Harry's camp, you ever need someone to help you from slippin' in to a war you can't fight, you think about reaching out."

"Never got your name, soldier."

"Whul," said Daigon, "Captain Whul, same name as the Baron. Second cousin. He got the castle, we got a sheepfarm south of Durkin's Bog."

With that, he stepped out of the tavern and into the gathering dusk.

"Don't look like no Whul to me," said one of the old men as the door clicked shut, "Had the looks of a northman, and the accent of one."

Joren Muttle poured himself another drink, "Whoever he was, he wasn't wrong about Brand's lot leavin' us for the crows."

-

They rode back along the Pilgrim's Road by night, torches held aloft to light their way.

"We going back to sack the place come morning?" asked one of Daigon's men.

"It's a foolish hunter who eats his own bait," replied the Captain.

"What?"

"No, we ain't sacking Bosfryd. Not yet."