Petrus looked in surprise at the accusation, but he didn't speak for a moment, merely surveyed the scene.

"Are you important enough to have people sent after you? I mean I suppose I could, but it seems like an awful lot of effort. Would you like me to send someone after you? I can if you want...well not me personally but I'll send Rupert back to the camp to gather some people to hunt you down." Petrus looked down at the box in his hand and spoke some soft words to it before pausing and looking up. "You'll have to wait until later I don't know if he is feeling up to it, the long journey has tired him out. But I will promise you that I'll send some men after you once I reach Fort Sutch, I can't imagine that it's that much farther...Would you mind waiting here?"

The Vescomte suddenly looked astonished and taken aback as he noticed something.

"By the Nine! By your briasts, you appear to be a woman! Or maybe a poorly disproportionate man...either way, I'm surprised you'd want me to send men after you. There is a possibility of ravishing after all. No, I must protest...If you still insist I send men to hunt you down at least try to hide in some bushes or maybe a very tall tree. I can't have women being ravished left and right on these roads, It just isn't natural!."

A quirk of an eyebrow and a light blush ascended upon Lucretia's face at the man's untactful comment concerning her cleavage. For a moment she wasn't sure if she should be insulted for not having noticed that earlier about her but it had become long since evident that the man was crazy. One thing did stick out to her. "Fort Sutch hm? And what will you be doing there, good sir?"

Pavlo had gathered the horses and Andrethi came closer to the group as well cleaning the blade and hatchet of blood but keeping the hatchet firmly in his right hand. The Bardiche blade of the tall broad shoulder Kyev dripped with a tik tok synchronism of a Dwemer machine as if counting down to something. A tense wind blew and Lucretia repeated the spell words in her mind trying to keep the craft fresh in her mind. Had they run into prisoners to capture?

Fafnid and Friends, Lord Drad's Estate

"I'd like to speak with Miquel Umbranox. I had a meeting with the COuntess but I have been informed that she has 'flown the coop', if I may use that expression. I am from the Nordic column." he added at the end, seeing the man's confused expression. He waited for the man to enter the tent and announce their arrival or at the very least, he would go and tell somebody who had actual authority that Fafnid was here.

"Well I imagine after rounding up some people to hunt you down, I'll be forced to take command of the garrison. I do hope I can make you reconsider, I'd hate to have your blood on my hands. Not that bloody hands are a problem...I just don't want your blood, you see I honestly don't know where you've all been and it's a bit unsanitary. No, I must ferry myself and my manservant, Rupert to Sutch so we can prepare the castle to kill anyone that doesn't look like us...Just as the gods intended." Petrus sat up and leaned back into the saddle before kicking the flanks of his tired horse who resisted at first, but was finally coaxed into motion.

"Sutch is, what...a quarter of an hour away? It'll take me just as long to rouse up a good group of man-hunters, and a woman-hunter just for you of course, and then the same time for them to come back here to kill you." Petrus smiled and threw his hands in the air as he added the figures together. "What say we rendezvous here in about an hour or so, give or take an hour for some murder, or ravishing, or possibly both."

He smiled pleasantly like a host handing out invitations to a garden party.

"Forgive me for my over-sight, I have the honor of being named Vescomte de Atrene, The Honorable Lord High Steward Petrus deTorroja. And who should I tell the men they're looking for?

OOC: Hope you don't mind a slight bit of character control



Don Miquel Lluis Umbranox, Estate of Lord Drad

The guard looked obviously uncomfortable as the Nordic man approached him. He gripped his halberd tightly, almost lowering it to keep the man away from the Don's pavilion. However, when he spoke and annoucned his intent, the guard's suspicsion turned to curiosity. "What kind of business do you have to discuss with our Don? He took a bit of a tumble today, and the surgeons have ordered him to-" The man on duty was cut off by a burst of racous laughter from inside the tent, then the sounds of clapping and gambling. With a heavy sigh and slouch, the guard drawled, "Go on in. I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you."

As the Nords entered the Don's pavilion, they were met with the sight of about a dozen high-born youths lounging on cushions, drinking wine, and giving sips of heavy ale to a monkey; a monkey that was quite drunk by that time. Numerous voluptous women were weaving about the great tent, running their hands through the hair of their favored youth. At the round table in the center of the tent their was a heated dice game going; a game of Hazard.

The Don, easily recognizable by his burnished hair and propped up leg, was lounging back in a high-backed chair, carefully sipping a goblet of fine wine. When a servant weaved his way over to the Don, whispering that the Nords had arrived. A grin lit up the youth's face as he waved the servant away, then motioned for the Nords to come in fully.

"Fine greetings to you, gentlemen! It pleases me to see that I have some allies that are at least punctual. In all honesty, I wasn't expecting you for at least a few days, so I will say this is a welcome surprise. Philip!" a servant rushed over to the Don's side, "See to these men's needs, I will have them treated most well!"

OOC: I suppose I ought to try to get back into things. Let's see if the Band of Bastards can fit in somewhere, some how.

The BB: Band of Bastards, Band of Brothers, Band of Blokes. Pick your poison
The BB is a band of people from all walks of life and all sorts of races. Outcasts to their homeland, misfits in their armies, or simply not desiring the same as other folk. Whatever their reasons, these people have come together to create a highly dysfunctional family of mercenaries. They will do nearly any job for money, but seek to avoid the battlefields of the war. Therefore, while always within the war-torn lands, they are rarely seen amongst those fighting in the lines of legions. One could consider them warriors for the common people. Or simply a group of warriors too chicken to battle in the war. However, recent developments have forced their participation in the battlefield.

http://i125.photobucket.com/albums/p76/FC4888/art/Hukral-siege.jpg Hukral is a mountain of a man, weighing at least twice the average man and towering at seven feet tall. He carries the characteristic Nordic barrel chest and broad shoulders, and looks like your average Skyrim native. His short and straight blond hair and blue eyes give him a gentle look. However, his suit of steel armor –lacking only a helm- his large aspis bronze shield, and his Fine steel claymore and fine steel shortsword make him seem more formidable. He wields the claymore as if it were a longsword, and the shortsword as if it were a dagger.

Hukral is indeed a gentle giant: he is dependable, loyal, and highly protective. He sports the intelligence of his Nordic ancestry, with knowledge in wilderness survival and use of natural resources. In battle he is a beast, charging into the fray with shield up and sword out eagerly. In social matters he is a gentleman. However, Chris' death has shattered him, as he blames it on himself, and so he is a little more silent and anti-social than previously. He suffers from moments of deep philosophy he’d likely be better off without.

In the past, he served as a soldier in the Skyrim Army, quelling small rebellions and riots, as well as defending townsfolk from savage beasts.

Hukral has been given a Black stallion by Lord Montrose of Wayrest.

http://i125.photobucket.com/albums/p76/FC4888/art/Jassan-siege.jpg Jassan is the child of the group, despite being in his forties. He stands at a full four feet and nine inches of height, with windswept black hair and large sapphire eyes. His short stature naturally lends the Bosmer to stealth work, and as such he has become a thief of sorts. He wears burgundy linens rather than armor, and sports a belt with ten daggers. He also has two daggers on each arm: one on the shoulder and one in sheath hidden at the forearm of the sleeve. He also has four daggers on each leg, two at his thigh and two hidden in his leather boots. These twenty-two daggers are often thrown, rather than stabbed. Jassan also has a tendency to leap around acrobatically.

Jassan is very outgoing and jolly, finding something to laugh or shout happily about in everything he encounters. A sarcastic wit adds to this to give him a sharp tongue at times, though it will sometimes backfire for him. He is also egotistical and considers himself a hit with the ladies. He is the pickpocket of the group.

Jassan has been given a Chestnut horse, which he has named Nehighta.

Jassan sports an elegant way with words, stemming from his wit and sharp tongue, which he uses both to wiggle out of trouble, and give false pretenses.

http://i125.photobucket.com/albums/p76/FC4888/art/Khajiit-siege.jpg The only beast-man of the group and a Khajiit, Ree’Ja does not get along well with Jassan. His fur is solid dark brown, and the Suthay-raht stands at around five foot seven inches. His favorite weapons are his claws, which he has not trimmed in years and as such have grown to at least three inches. Agile and acrobatic, Ree’Ja is the true leaper of the group. He sports thin leather armor upon his body, mainly on his torso, thighs, and forearms.

Ree’Ja is a cranky kitty, quick to snap at an annoyance and often in a mood. Yet if you want something done, he will do whatever is within his power to do so. He often spends his earnings on Moon Sugar, which makes him giddy and childlike. Otherwise, he is the most serious member of the group, most down to earth.

Ree'Ja has been given a Paint horse.

http://i125.photobucket.com/albums/p76/FC4888/art/Marsha-Siege.jpg Marshamilia goes by the name of Marsha if those who speak her name wish to remain in one piece. The only female and Redguard of the group means she has to be tough, or she gets taken advantage of. She seems to take more advantage of the men, however, than the other way around. Her black hair is braided in a ring-like crown around the top of her head, before the remaining lengths of the strands simply fall back down to the length of around the bottom of her shoulder blades in beaded braids. Her face and dark brown eyes are tough and hardened, the softness of feminism seeming to have passed her by. Her form is feminine however, with lovely curves and an average bust. She does not hide her form, wearing a dark red bra beneath an untied crimson vest with golden designs embroidered upon it. Her burgundy pants are tight at her hips but flare out near her ankles. Her weapon is a Naginata, a pole-arm with a blade at one end that is about eight feet in total length, compared to her five foot and seven inch form. She wears golden bracelets and anklets, giving her a slight jingle when she moves. She also wears golden loop earrings. She is also a magic-user, capable of basic healing and destructive magic.

Marsha is a firecracker of a woman, and she has to be. Quick to wield her naginata and even quicker to snap at someone, she is cranky every day of the month. A sarcastic humor and stern seriousness exist within her, depending on the situation. She is very demanding, very dominating, and very arrogant. Oddly, she has not shown any interest in any men in the group, even those who have shown interest in her.

Marsha seems to be of the belief that in order to be strong, one must be independently capable of caring for themselves. This is why she resents the nobles of the world, who rely on their servants and underclass in order to reach their goals.

Marsha has been given a Bay Horse.

http://i125.photobucket.com/albums/p76/FC4888/art/Chris-Siege.jpg
Once the only Breton and archer of the group, Chris was the most inexperienced, though battle-toughed by time in the legion. He died in the Redguard attack on the entrenched Legion, and is currently buried at the border of the bamboo forest south of Sentinel, a cross made from two arrows signifying his grave.

http://i125.photobucket.com/albums/p76/FC4888/art/Wikrun-Siege.jpg Wikrun is the mage of the group, and as such they lean on him for healing after contracts, even though Marsha can heal just as well. Unlike Marsha, his focus in magic is not destruction. He chooses to make his forte in Alteration and Mysticism, with Restoration as an offshoot school of study. He is very skilled in the two primary schools of his teachings. A Dunmer naturally, his red eyes are matched with fiery red hair that falls in waves past his shoulders, bunched together in a ponytail. His skin is a dark shade of grayish blue and his body is well-toned and agile. He clothes himself in a forest-green robe with gold embroidery, and carries a leather satchel bag over his shoulders often. He has a small staff about half his height –which is to say three feet- with a quartz orb atop it. He uses it more like a walking stick than a magical staff, but it in fact has a dispel enchantment upon it and can be used to channel his magic.

Wikrun is reserved by nature, as all wizards are, but he can be very social when the situation seems appropriate. He is gentlemanly typically, though he can laugh at a joke and even crack some of his own. He is easily the most intelligent member of this band, though far too humble to admit it. He also has a calm approach to magical work and fighting, thinking before acting. Thankfully for the others he is a quick thinker, as well. He joined them from Morrowind mainly because he never fit well in the Telvanni House.

Wikrun has been given a Paint Horse.

Wikrun had befriended one of Divayth Fyr’s daughters in his youth, and his father was an old acquaintance, so Fyr had lent him his notes (written in Aldmeris) concerning Alteration magicks and their uses on living beings.

Summary:
The Band of Bastards, BB
Once six, now five, the BB is a band of mercenaries that seem to have nothing in common accept being outcasts. Little known by any except the middle and lower classes of Tamriel, though gaining more repute with nobility after the War of the Wolf. Often referred to as a circus. Hukral is a giant of a Nord at seven feet, Wikrun is a Telvanni rogue, Jassan is a four foot nine inch bosmeri thief with too many knives, Marsha is a gypsy-dressed Redguard witch with a naginata and a few secrets, and Ree’Ja is a skooma loving Khajiit with claws that are in need of trimming. As individuals they are not well known, their renown rising from their work in the BB. They are like a dysfunctional family; highly dysfunctional.

Fafnid, Tent at Lord Drad's Estate

Fafnid just chuckled at the deflated look on the guard's face as the noise from inside the tent rose. He gave him a pat on the shoulder as he walked past him, pushing aside the linen doors and standing in the doorway. The scene only made him chuckle some more, as young men drank and relaxed around the many women who were in the room as well. Fafnid watched as a man walked around the center and bend down to whisper in the ear of a young man. A boy in Fafnid's eyes.

Fafnid couldn't believe how young he was to be in charge of the defense of an entire city and its land, but he did not judge him solely on that. The lad looked up at them and beckoned them into the room, offering them drinks and anything else they might want.

"I'll have a brandy if you have it." he said to the servant with a smile, before turning back to the Don. "Beg your pardon, if we have interrupted you. I'm sure you are very... errr... busy with the preparations you have been appointed to lead." he remarked, with a tell-tale glance around at the tent full of drunken men and women.

"No doubt, your mother and father have told you why I am here? I admit, I am a little disappointed that I can not speak to them for I do not think you have the authority to give me what I need in exchange for our services."

He picked his words carefully, not wanting to offend the lad who, judging by the scene in the tent, had at least a moderately large ego. He took the glass of bandy from the servant, Phillip, with a nod and a mumbled "Thanks" before turning back to the young lad who was now, seemingly, in charge of his people's future, though he probably didn't know it.

Don Miquel Lluis Umbranox, Estate of Lord Drad

Miquel's eyebrow quirked as he listened to Fafnid presenting himself, but his smile never wavered. As the Nordic man spoke, one of the young women entertaining the Don and his companions moved over to his side, presumptously putting her hand on the interior of his thigh. Without taking his eyes off of Fafnid, the young man reached down and removed her hand, giving her a slight push away. The prosttute, giving a great huff, stomped away from the Don as the other girls giggled at her failed attempts to catch his attention.

When Fafnid had finished speaking, Miquel let the silence persist for a short while, draining his goblet of wine, then motioning for a servant to refill it. As the servant withdrew, Miquel raised his goblet to Fafnid in salute, saying, "Colovians have a saying, 'Només els grans homes compleixin les seves promeses'. Only great men keep their promises. My lord, if we may speak candidly? My father is not a great man, and my witch of a mother is not a man. If you spoke to them, they would promise you half of Nirn to get your support, and then fail to deliver." Rising from his seat, with some difficulty due to his leg, the Don limped over towards the exit of the pavilion, stopping just short of it. Looking outside, he began to speak again.

"To prove that my parents are fools, they put in charge an insenat over our border defences near the Brena River. It is an appointment I would never have made, since I value a man's mind just as such as his skill at arms. A man befuddled is no man at all, but an automaton to dance to his handler's tune." When Miquel turned back to face Fafnid, the grin was gone, replaced by a very serious look. Looking over the Nord's shoulder, he called to his companions, "Debaunch yourselves elsewhere, lads, I have business with this man." Despite their grumblings and protests, the harlets and young men filed out of the Don's tent, leaving him and Fafnid alone except for the servants and armed guards.

"Now we may speak of serious matter, my lord."

Obviously the man had been touched. Touched in a most unpleasant way by the mad god himself. Lucretia's eye brow quirked and her lips grinned slightly. "Enchanted. I'm Lucretia Ducale. Might I be curious enough to ask how many men are in the garrison at Fort Sutch?" If the crazy man was telling the truth, perhaps it would work in their favor. If not a few wasted minutes wouldn't be such a bad thing. Both of the crossbows were loaded and ready to be aimed if needed. Lucretia would play it by ear and none of the others would do anything without her approval. She had experience with this sort of thing form her early days in Leyawiin and when she first returned from the war. A little bit of compulsory motivation.

"You see the thing is, my lady Lucretia Ducale, is that I'd love to tell you. Yet I haven't exactly been there yet now have I? However if you insist i can certainly ride back with my men and let you know before the whole ravishing/murder thing happens though. I am just trying my best to see the point in all of this though if you wind up being dead at the end of it. You know what, how about this. I send Rupert back with the message, that way I don't have to do as much. Is that reasonable?"

"Hmm, would it be alright if Rupert spent some time with me while you go and see how many men are at Sutch, you know so we know how many to send after me later on? A couple of my friends and I are already camped a bit west of Fort Sutch so it shouldn't be any trouble. You'll have no problem spotting our camp." She'd play crazy with crazy if need be. Hopefully the ruse would work. The two Kyevs looked confused for a moment but decided it would be best to be quiet while Andrethi stood still as a statue. "If you want, one of my friends could visit with you while Rupert visits with me. How would you like that?"

"Rupert can handle himself...Though I would warn you my lady, He is a bit of a womanizer." Petrus said casually as he tossed the box to the woman. "Send with me whoever you think is a fair trade."

A swift kick in the flanks of his horse spurred him on and past the strange group. He had other places to be and not even violence and briasts would keep him from his duty to Anvil. without looking back he rode on, towards Sutch, and past the dead bandits. Within moment the entire encounter ws all but forgotten. At first it seemed trivial but as he rode the responsibility began to sink in.

I just pray I'm up to it.

Fafnid, Miquel's Tent

Fafnid found his respect for the lad grow slightly as he spoke. The scene in the tent masked an underlying intelligence that Fafnid never would have guessed was there at first glance but he could feel it now. He did not give the way he spoke about his parents a second thought, but he was curious as to who they had appointed to lead the defense at the river. The old Nord could see that appointment bothered Miquel, but not in the way an immature young man might be angered.

He could not ponder the mysteries of the boy for long as soon he was shooing all of his friends and women out of the tent, to give them some quiet. Fafnid took a hearty swig of the brandy, and fought hard to hide his disgust at the weak-tasting swill in the cup. He chuckled as the last of the scantily clad women exited the tent with a sour look on her face and sat up as the man was clearly ready to get down to business. Behind him, Granis and Conrad sat silently, drinking whatever drinks they had requested, and beside him, Otus readied a quill and parchment to record the meeting. He had wisely held his quill still for the first part of the meeting with the many women about.

"First of all, half of Nirn will not be requested from my people and myself. However, as I'm sure you know, many of my people have left the southern portions of Skyrim due to a number of factors which I will not go into detail about here. A large number are living not only a few days from here and a larger number wait for the word back in my homeland for word from us. I doubt your parents knew exactly what we wanted. Perhaps they figured we simply wanted gold or jewels or both. Or that we are simply here for bloodshed, as that seems to be the common conception of my people in the other parts of Tamriel."

He took another sip of the weak brandy and lowered his glass, looking the boy right in the eye; not to intimidate but rather to try and make him understand what he truly wanted for his people.

"My people yearn for a new life. Not just gold and blood, but land to till and fields to build on. Can you give this to us, in exchange for our arms in combat?"