Zeriel squatted in the snow, rubbing his two fingers over the tracks of what seemed like a large herd passing over a road. Only this herd had weird markings, many large animals like horses and deer most likely, but also boot prints, and something akin to the sleds that his tribe used to use to drag their skins by.

Zeriel stood, his many furs that he wore shaking off the light snow fall that fell silently from the sky. His long
black unkept hair fell about his head with abandon, keeping
him warm from the frigid weather.

he rubbed his unshaven chin, the thick stubble growing slowly as it always did. He checked his weapons once more, a shortened sword on his left hip, and a heavy crude axe on his right, both fit to his furs with leather loops. On his back his javelins were kept snug to his light pack he kept, which held the food and water he had foraged.

Satisfied his gear was kept soundly on himself, he finally left the ever expanding forests and plains of the north that were his home, and headed south, in the direction of the trail of this large herd many animals and people.


Weeks later...

Zeriel crested a hill dotted with large boulders and small trees, coming upon a small village which was nestled soundly in between this rise and the others beyond it. thin white smoke trails could be seen rising from the few buildings within it, and tiny figures the size of ants scurried around the village, going about their daily routine.

By this time, the snows had gone and the warmer weather south forced Zeriel to cut off much of his hair and to keep his beard down to a rough stubble. The crudely chopped hair stopped right above his shoulders and poofed out due to the warmer weather. He stripped off some of the heavier furs, leaving on only the thick cured hides that made up his
armor and his thin leather boots, along with one long fur of a bison that draped from his left shoulder over his body, and tied together with sinew by his right hip, which left his arms exposed. He wore on his fore arms thin hardened vambraces which gave him some protection, and upon
his right upper arm he bore a tattoo of a blackened dead tree, with roots of red.


Making his way down to the village, Zeriel prepared to encounter anything. Only two other times had he had contact with anyone but tribes, and once things went poorly fast. If he had any doubt, the lack of supplies he had made it almost impossible to move on without stopping here.

Walking passed some villagers who's stare lingered longer than usual, Zeriel made his way into the building which seemed to have the most activity. Hoping that his hunch was correct, he entered into a place called the Rusty Bucket.


He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene and the warmth of the building. Many people stood inside, all looking like something out of a dream that he would have.

Using his limited knowledge of places like these, he approached the man behind the counter, standing in front of a row of empty stools. He looked around and saw that others were sitting, so he did the same to try an ease his obviously differnt appearance. When the bartender came over, he spoke up for the first time.

"Water, water."

Reginald was rather fascinated by the newest person to come in. His attire was composed of furs, and his hair was unkempt. Experience was in the man’s eyes, and a focused disposition was about him. Tipping his hat and scratching Colonel Kreed who was at this point eating a berry on his master shoulder, Reginald decided to make conversation.

“Greeting there good chap. Haven’t seen you around before, but then again I haven’t seen anyone around here before aside from the inn keep! Ha Ha!”

Pulling up a chair next to the stranger, Reginald sat down. “The name’s Reginald. Reginald Lockmeister: retired merchant, learned wizard, and budding adventurer at your service!” The middle aged man then took off his hat and gave the man a wink. He then pat Colonel Kreed once more, while gesturing the new patron to his pet and friend. “And this here is Colonel Kreed – Don’t bother where he got his rank from, I haven’t the slightest idea. Some traveling bard stated that this was his full name, and Kreed is ‘spelled with a K’. But enough about me, I was curious: are you by chance one who partakes in the fur trade? I have not had much experience in that trade, so I couldn’t say whether you were a trader yourself or not.”

Adjusting his monocle, Reginald now took in a better look of the man now that he was closer, but listened to the man’s response with all due attention as well, for such is the way of a gentlemen.

A man in chainmail approaches him at the bar. Before that the man had been intently surveying the situation between the rough and tumble half breed, and the farmers. Istoran introduced himself, and then asked for his name. Jonathan wasn't very interested in throwing his name around to strangers, and his intentions were unknown to him. So he decided to lie. He chuckles at being called sir, "No no, don't toss me into the same pile as those blowhards with lances. I am no sir. You can call me Thistle. My favorite nickname. People say I'm a pain in the arse!" He smirks, and locks eyes with Istoran briefly. A dark chestnut hue that bore into the man, studying the features of this fellow patron that sought a cornerstone in the arch of acquaintanceship.

"What brings you to this rust bucket... Istoran?"

Istoran looked down as Thistle stared into his eyes. Despite being able to stand in almost any danger and not flinch, he couldn't look someone n the eyes "What brings you to this rust bucket... Istoran?" the man called Thistle asked.

Istoran replied,"Money mostly. I'm not one of those, as you put it, blowhards with lances. I fight for money. That's all. If she happens to get work." Istoran gestured towards Myirh," I'll be working with her. How about your?"