By the time the guards had come, Brynn had already left a trail of writhing wounded or stone-still unconscious. His knife was red, handle slick with other men's blood, and he sat breathing deep and slow in a corner, leaning against the wall near the hearth. Crossbows were trained on everyone around the room and he grinned, thinking how this could get any worse than it already was. The big green bastard had already killed more than a few men, and he'd already left a few to bleed out, himself. He shook his head, rolled his eyes and began clapping when the halfhead guard shot Maulakanth. He was promptly killed, and the people behind him too.

So this was how Brynn's luck was. He rose to fame on the backs of lies, he shed blood and sweat to earn his own names, he shook hands and slapped backs with men others sing songs of, and heard songs sung of himself. Then he made enemies. He buried friends because of his feuds with those enemies. Then he was stabbed by his own friend over words. Actually, come to think of it, he should have seen this shit streak of luck coming a mile away. He laughed something almost like a cough at first, then a chuckle, and he shook his head and slapped his knee and cringed because he was reminded by the searing pain that he'd cut himself when he smashed a bottle on a man's head.

“Maulakanth.” He raised his voice and then mused to himself when no one acknowledged him, “That fucker has our gold strapped to him and he's too caught up killing these half-wits.” He raised a brow when he heard the pounding of hooves and remembered their horse-man guests, “And these fucking centaurs.”

He walked forward and picked up a shortbow and the quiver beside it. It was no warbow, and definitely not his old warbow, but it would have to do. He walked outside to the sight of two dead centaurs splayed on the muddy ground in ugly death. He turned to a guard next to him, a lad of only seventeen summers, “If I kill these horse-men, me and my friends all walk away from this and you forget it all?”

“If that's what the Captain says.” The guards-lad muttered.

“Even the murders?” Even still, the crashing in the Gaptooth Grin with the merciless howling of Maulakanth sating his bloodlust could be heard mingling with the shouts from the battle outside. Alarm bells rang, the terrified wailing of mothers scrambling to safety with their children, the shouting of the Captain to rally his men, the pounding of hooves. And somewhere among it all, a man being killed by a giant orc.

“Even the what? You killed people in there?” He said.

“Me?” He remembered cutting open that man's gut, stabbing that other in the crotch and then stabbing the one in the neck, “Mara's mercy, no.”

“I can't let murder go unpunished! Captain!” Brynn's eyes went wide and it was far too late to stab this mouthy nance in the throat. He and the lad both looked at the Captain, but the lad hacked and Brynn looked back over to see the point of an arrow through his neck.

“Serves you right, you loose-lipped cunt.” Brynn muttered, turning around while he nocked an arrow and sighted on a centaur riding far too fast in his direction for his liking. The centaur had a bow with an arrow of his own nocked. Brynn swallowed and darted to the left, hearing the twang of a bow and the whistling arrow. He pulled back the string, sighted as best he could and let loose. The dull thump of an arrow burying itself in flesh graced his ears for the first time in a long time and a smile crossed his lips. The centaur faltered and tripped over its own legs, falling and skidding to a stop twenty or so strides from him. “Cunt.”

He took a few arrows out of his quiver and planted them head-first into the ground at his feet. This was his element, a decent bow and some enemies a ways away. He didn't feel himself don his calm smile until he let loose another arrow that caught a centaur in the neck at fifty paces. Another wheeled around and brandished a crude sword and screamed something in his dumb language, “Oh?” The centaur charged for him and he nocked another arrow, drew, and fired. His first arrow missed by inches when the centaur dodged to the side. He reached down, keeping his eyes on the bastard and nocked another shaft. He drew, exhaled and shot. It caught the centaur just below the chest and he watched him slow to a trot and then slump to his knees before falling over. “Ponce.”

He spared a thought at how he could only ever feel right in places like this. In the midst of battle, or a good scrap or skirmish. He had a good voice for song, maybe could've gone to the Bards College in Solitude, he'd spared a thought in his endless musings about leaving home behind but ultimately chose the blade. But introspection was best left for after the battle, if you were still alive. He sniffed and cast his eyes about the battle, counting out his comrades, hoping that they'd survived. He caught sight of most of them, but he still felt like one was missing. He released a held breath when he saw the mousy lad, “All accounted for.” He nodded, then paused, an arrow nocked. His face told of thought and he rolled his eyes. With that, he plucked his arrows out of the ground and placed them back in his quiver. He could count them out later, he knew that big bag of money was here somewhere and he'd seen it last around the tavern. Then he stopped for a beat, “And Berich.”

He set off to find that rich-looking bastard, an arrow nocked and ready for anyone trying to get in his way.