The Hamlet Streets

[Vanitypirate]

Ponytail broke into a bubbly laugh, clasping his hands together delightedly in spite of the fiery tribalwoman,

"Jolly!"

To think, initially, he was worried about his lack of companionship: a lone hunt was often an unsuccessful and dangerous one, indeed. Even with the rather... unideal make-up of the fellows, they would make do. Yes, the important thing was that this bonding was rather swift.
He took such things, the approval of the locals, as a good omen.

He had a spring in his step, rejuvenated after his long journey in light of this new camaraderie, as he trotted to the tavern with his party.

"I never fast before a hunt, no; this makes the head foggy." He advised, tapping his very un-fogged noggin emphatically as he looked back at them, clicking his worn bootheels up the smallish tavern steps as he held the door open for the group,

"Come, make merry, you shall need it tomorrow, I bet!"

[Ponytail enters the tavern.]

[Bloodtrailkiller]

/Lekalis/

Had he stepped down the Abbey's stairs any faster, he would have been gliding. As it were, his heels only just grazed the muddy and well slicked tops of those oblong cobblestones. Most especially given their recent trodden nature from the attendants of that Sermon of Grace's rambling.

It was undeniably infuriating to find himself on such a drab end of the social stick; to be set back so low after reaching such a high, such a rebirth. Narry once but twice, once in the earth with his Lordship, and again in fire when it all came burning down.
As though some phantom of his bastardly past haunted his very essence. 

He came to a dancing halt, at the end of the steps; having gained a tad much momentum in the descent, he felt his boots catch and settle, before he set off in his long stride again, holding the pail of water with evermore vehemence.

It didn't matter, though, he supposed; he could make friends, good friends. Ones that he would hold near and dear... Though, it seemed those of any real repute in his life had such good humors as to leave this corpsepile before it too went in flames.

As the Ex-Lord gazed down into the well's darkly abyss, sending the bucket there down in a whistling descent before it splashed into the water, there was an unmistakeable wonder in that thought; that, perhaps, he too should look beyond those dark woody boughs. So much like bars to a prison cell now, as he feared not the hunters of his past.

Cross was the only Gunsche that still sought him out, and truly, only desired his amulet. How easy it would be to give it over and be done with it all; get a reward perhaps, as they were never want for generosity... Rather, the followup proceeding it.
No, he could not trust them to pay him... Much less, keep that payment at any rate.

There was a splash, and he began to bring up the pail of water once again. A song, perhaps the merriest tune he'd heard outside a lover's wail, came reverberating from the tavern. It took some ashamed effort to keep himself from running off to investigate, and set to simply pulling up the now filled water bucket.

//

[stealthclaw]

At Mordecai's whispers, Fen nodded in agreement. She understood his feelings, and definitely agreed that the man, Ponytail, was vastly more friendly than the tribal woman. She too went into the tavern after Katja stalked inside, keeping close to her new teacher rather than the exile.

[Katja and Fen enter the Tavern]


A shorter than average man stepped off of the stagecoach with the most recent batch of newcomers, taking a moment to look around. He had a firm grip on the leather strap that held his wonderful pet to his bracer, looking around the Hamlet with a new sense of curiosity, and oddly, some morbidity. This was the place he had traveled for so long to find. Months had passed since his comrades' demise in their tents, some burned alive, others coldly murdered. With his free hand, the man stroked his brown, nicely groomed beard in thought. This was his new, albeit temporary home. How... Underwhelming. Having heard all of the rumors about the Estate, Hayato had expected it to be a bustling village of sorts, but now, he noticed that was not the case. Perhaps in time it would come to be, but alas, the place was much smaller and quieter than his own homeland.

Hayato took a few steps from the stage coach, the stiff fabric of his hakama moving with him, and the jacket swaying in the wind like a cape would. His pack was secure on his back, and his family's katana at his side. The lock was active on the sheath, keeping it from being yanked-out by some wayward traveler. Pushing his true purpose out of his mind, for the time being, Hayato continued forward, wondering where to go. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see movement toward one building. Looking over and observing yielded him the information that the place seemed popular among the locals. Checking again, it looked like the signs gave away the information that the building everyone was flocking to was the Tavern. Perhaps he should start there, familiarize himself with the locals?

Stopping to think, Hayato wondered if his accent would prove a problem. It had impaired his trades at other towns, so he hoped that his English was good enough to pass here. The man of Japanese descent figured that his home language was definitely not a commodity here. Nevertheless, he stepped toward the tavern, keeping a distance from it still. He would wait a while, make sure that no one thought he was stalking the locals.

When Hayato examined the clothes of those around him, he realized that he stuck out like a sore thumb. He really hoped that he wouldn't be targeted here, simply on the basis of his different culture... The anxiety was clear on his face, almost souring his usually happy expression.

[Unter]

Francois looks at the disgraceful shanks on Milo's belt. He roared a laugh "Ha ! Those things aren't proper for what I will teach you. Your sword must be a tool against corruption and against those that would break you and those who cares about you." He says that as a neutral tone, like he was reciting his catechism.
"Now, I need to pray. Come with me and I will show you the first step on the road to salvation. Here, you may carry my sword. Shape your hands around the pommel and feel the weight. But do not use it unless I tell you so."
He then walks towards the abbey, a content smile on his face.

[rumsztyk]

He swallowed. Salvation? For him?

Feeling safe enough, for now, and his brand hidden under the clothing, Milo entered the Abbey following Francois. He kept the sword in front of him, like a trophy, hand getting comfortable with the pommel. The boy tried his best to look unassuming and unappealing - avoiding unnecessary attention.

He still kept his old shanks. They could be of use.

[Bloodtrailkiller]

/Lekalis/

With only the smallest of glances, he'd spy a fair flock of fresh faces spilling into the Hamlet; and one of markedly Eastern regalia, something he thought he'd never see again... A falcon, to boot. It was enough to make him pause, as he set the bucket from the Well on the lip of the glorified hole in the ground.

Staring, he memorized the man's features, and the falcon's as they hawked about the mouth of the Tavern; clearly gauging whether or not to enter, the thought of English being the man's core diallect came into question, and he hummed, before raising a hand and waving eagerly from the Sanitarium's well.

It was 'aught but a friendly welcoming gesture, to be made of the man as he would; Lekalis, on the otherhand, focused on the bucket before him.
He wondered if that falconer had a mind for herbs and healing.

Another huff, and a small chuckle, as he realized his wandering mind: he slowly tilted the bucket to bleed the water from it, into the pail he'd brought. The water sloshed loudly, though he was careful to keep the pour steady and avoided letting it swell.

The process was done in a matter of moments, and he set the bucket for the well aside, as he plucked up the pail of Water and departed for the Abbey once again; taking long strides towards it.

[Lekalis exits for the Abbey]

[stealthclaw]

Had Hayato not been observing people while standing there, he may not have noticed the friendly wave from the distant stranger. He inclined his head at that, showing a half-smile. The Eastern man stood there uncomfortable, standing out among the other commoners that were wandering about. Akemi let out a faint hiss, growing restless on his arm.

"Now now, patience." He soothed in his native tongue. The remark caused his falcon to settle on his arm, feathers on her chest puffed out almost indignantly.

[Bloodtrailkiller]

[Returning from The Weald : Taas, Villon, Mithra, Nasuada/Tris]
/Taas/

It came first, as a scent on the wind; a palette of sweats and oils and bloods all intermingling on the deathly wind that swept up The Old Road like a shade of Death itself, whispering doom even as she set one foot ahead of the other, still pulling Villon along the road.

Her compatriots were yet with her, it seemed, as well as the two Deserters who did keep to the side of the road, for what it was worth. Keeping a distance was the most she could ask them to do; though she wanted to demand so... So much more. 
As she'd helped Villon limp home, she'd held a steady gaze on the two Deserter's; memorizing their face, their walk and mannerisms. Scars, of which there were none (sides Jean whose prettiness was no doubt marred forever), and scent.

Albeit, the struggle of the entire endeavour had left her whole-heartedly drained... Her legs ached and her bones occasionally popped in and out of place in uncomfortable, though not crippling, ways.
"How much d'you fucking eat, big-chum..?" Taas couldn't help but growl out as her foot caught on a rock, sending her and her wounded compatriot, stumbling for a moment, before she caught herself as the cobblestones tightened up at the bridge of  the Hamlet proper.

When she looked to Jean and Tony, who'd been ahead of them not but a moment before, they were vanished; the last she saw was Tony slipping into an Alley nearby the Tavern.

"... Right... Let's get marching." She sighed with some reassurance, as she huffed a stray lock of pale hair out from her face, before leering off at the Sanitarium, then down to Villon.
"You don' get nervous around Quacks, do you..?", her voice chuckled and shook her head, as she began to haul the man over the bridge.
"... T'is no shame innit, they spook me. I can... probably find you someone here. Or y'could try my hands out for size? I've patched up a goon like you once or twice on the field."

//

[ContinuumBlamesVan]

/Ulysses/

The door closed quietly, and he stretched, grimmacing as his tired limbs cracked and creaked. His hands, his hands pressed gently against the door, steadying himself as he cast his one good eye about, and a small smile appeared beneath his shroud. Brigli was there, and clean. The children had really, really come through for him, happily chirruping to him about how "they were 'appy 'e was awright afer he collapsed on th' stairs." They'd left him in his room, made excuses for his absence, they even groomed his Light-damned horse, who hated everyone and everything.
That...what little of it he remembered, and what he saw after it all certainly told him it was not one of his finer moments. And he was behind on his work and training the boy, who he had no doubt would have words for him. His smile fell back to his standard grimace, and he ran a hand through his messy, greying hair. Well, what was the point of an apprentice, if not to use them to trim a week of beard and hair from time to time? He'd- he stopped that line of thinking, crushing its rotting and sanguine brains out onto the ground beneath his steel boots. No, he wpuld finish the boy's lessons and be done. And never talk about it ever again. He could survive.
Surviving isn't living, quipped the sanguine mess, and he mentally smashed the thing one more time with the shield he had brought with him for good measure, before taking his first, admittedly shakey and very hungry steps into the Hamlet. He'd get food, he'd find the boy and get him back on schedule, and he'd--
He stopped at the sight of the bridge. No. Oh no. That looked like a horrifically wounded party. Of adventurers, mercenaries, the kinds of people who like to make his life miserable. Granted, they were barely crawling into town, and almost collapsed on the bridge, but they were what he was trying to avoid. Unless they brought back the bolks and...things he needed, but he traded with the Nomads for that. No, he thought, no, not today. Let them hobble and bleed their way to their graves. Just like everyone else. His strides became longer as he clutched his shield, the canvas still in tatters and showing its heraldry again, to his side.
Just like everyone else. Chains. Rattling, clanking and a burbling assaulted the cave of his skull, made him slow. Made him hesitate, and look at them again. And that was the mistake. The white-haired one's quips and forced humor reached him even as he was thankful the stench was blocked out by the shroud around his neck. It was strained, it was closer to cracking or...something than anyone ought to be.
It was what his voice would sound like. And then he was moving towards her, towards the crippled limping man she carried, his shield on his arm, his book already out as he scrawled out a message in his impeccable handwriting. The sanguine mess rasped out laughter, and the rattling reached a climax as he approached, and held a hand for her to stop. The message was held out to her, even as he knelt down and took the man's other side, even as he troed to take the majority of the weight from her easily and readily, and his gambeson became drenched in gore. He had just cleaned them too.
"Pray forgive me, signorina, but it seems you could use aid. I can get you to the sanitarium, at least."

[relentless]

Villon was startled as the other man approached, hoisting himself up a bit out of a protective nature before he hunched back down, the pain biting at him like a cobra spitting acid. He gritted his teeth and stifled a cry, only let a pain filled growl, guttural and aggressive seep from his mouth. He allowed the man to tasks hold of him, the added assistance made it easier for him to deal with the pain.

Passing a glance at the man, and then at Taas, he conceded, looking ahead st the sanatorium with a paranoid sigh.

"..Mgh... but my whiskey and... eugh, they better not poke me or I'll be 'avin a stern talking with the little men."
Villon rambled on in a malicious manner, though it was soon ignored with a low rasping chuckle and smirk, an oof of irritation following.

"Yah better treat yourself after this, Cloudy. Deserve it."
Villon asserts himself casually, before passing a glance at the man.
"And thank ye, boy."
Villon states briefly, looking toward Taas and mouthing a 'nah' at her before he looked forward again.

"...They do have some ale there... right?"

[Bloodtrailkiller]

/Taas/

She spied the man coming a hill and fort away, as he trundled on as knightly folk were wont to do; he might be soiled, but his gait and shield were enough to tell some sort of story to her. Granted, she supposed the wolf embossed on the teardrop targe could just be some personal regalia; but there seemed to hold some dignity in the bronzey appearance.
Taas' chin raised, a tough upper lip, as she eyed the man's approach; slowing before he held out the paper, as he swooped in and presumed assistance.
"Wo-hey now! The fe-eh..." She tried to speak fiercely, though, she sighed and  took the help regardless; and swiped the paper from his hands as fast as she could with her farthest arm.

Though, it scored a groan from behind clenched teeth as her joints bit into her muscles in protest. Still, after a brief roll of her shoulders and neck, she looked down to read the paper.
"Don't call me Cloudy." She muttered absent mindedly, as her bandaged brow furrowed as she tried to piece together the words.

The Pale-Haired merc realized her tone might've been terse, so she offered a light chuckle; looking up with a flash of a toothy, wolfish grin.
"I-I mean y'can, Just... jestin`; y'know?" She apologized half-heartedly before setting back to the paper,
"I'm sure they've nastier stuff'n whisky in that Quackhouse... I'll bring ya some, don't fret none, mhmm..." Absent mindedly going on as she sighed and scoffed, looking over to Ulysses incredulously.

"... Yeah; fuck... Take th'bleeding manbear off'a me. Sheesh." Taas chuckled and promptly slipped out from Villon's shoulder, groaning as she felt her shoulder pop in protest. Still, she kept pace with the duo, as she slowly worked her right arm into its socket again. Jerking her forearm to jab a thumb at herself, then Villon,
"Taas. Villon. Neither of us are Signorinas, chummer." She chuckled, smirking as she eyed the encroaching Sanitarium with a twitch of dread in her all too apparent veins.

The Upbeat Brawler took the head, and skipped up the steps of the Sanitarium, looking down at the two expectantly.
"So, what's your name then, Mute?"

[ContinuumBlamesVan]

/Ulysses/

The woman's snipes and protests quickly died down when she seemingly realized that she could be free of the deadweight. Her comment about signorinas was something he would have corrected habitually had he possession of his paper and implements. Instead, all he did was raise an eyebrow, the one over his seared and scarred shut left eye, as if saying I think I know what I said, occhi. He easily shouldered the big man's weight, and despite some internal complaints of his body, he lifted the man to full height and took all his weight as though he were little more than a few sacks of potatoes. And then he realized what he had done, and it was too late. Maybe he could play it off as adrenaline. Yes, that would do it. He kept his strides easy and careful so as to not jostle his charge as he tramped along, and the woman, suddenly free and having fixed her shoulder, apparently decided to turn her nervous energy into acting far, far too cheerful, and he mentally shrunk back. Light's virgin chambers, why were there two hyper-cheerful psychopaths that he knew? And both of them were women- which probably said something about his life, really.

At least this one was interesting to watch and look at, he reflected, as he watched her move, bounce and skip. It was like she had to keep doing something or she might just explode: a murderous puppy with white hair and a missing eye that mirrored his own. He stopped that little tangent, not wanting to feel any further sort of connection to her or the alcoholic arbalest he had met before.

He cracked a smile that was barely visible beneath his neckwrap, and kept moving at a steady clip, occasionally eyeing his book, which he would need to collect before he could actually leave and drown his conscience in routine. The clotheslines called to him mightily, as did the dirty dishes. He nodded to the man he carried, a silent I'll see you to safety, and then found himself watching as the white-hair tensed up at the encroaching sanctuary. Somebody didn't like doctors. Well, at least he knew the receptionist, which would speed things up for them all, assuming she didn't open her mouth and blab about all the things he had told her.

Her question about his name, along with the nickname she gave him, was coincidental to the end of his smile. He pointed habitually to his throat, still carrying the man along with one arm, then made a slashing motion, indicating slashed vocal cords: he really was a mute, thank you. He then pointed to the book, and motioned to the front of it, where a single word was written in the same immaculate handwriting he had demonstrated before.

ULYSSES.

[Outisakanobody]

Lance was feeling rather good, now, after Grace's sermon. He found the sentiments she shared heartwarming and inspiring. He strolled around the streets of the hamlet, trying hard to not get dragged down by other thoughts.

[Kidney]

Hugo moved quickly, crossing the small bridge nimbly, humming a tune from a kid's mind as he approached a small flat patch of grass he saw as he played for the man with the ponytail. He had seen it, and was intent on setting up here, and now he set to rolling out the hemp bedroll filled with feathers. It was expensive, but well made and good for situations such as this, and now he threw it down. It hit the grass, and now it flattened slightly, but it looked nice. He pulled the twine holding his lute, away from himself and setting it near the roll, along with his hammer. 
Now he walked towards leaved trees, pulling them off of the branches, arranging a pile of leaf for a mattress.

[hopper]

She filed along behind him, engrossed in ensuring perfection in that which defined her livelihood, listening to the soft twang as she ran her fingers across each string in turn. Soon, without even meaning too, she'd turned it into a song that she played as they walked. Looking up from the mandolin, Winifred surveyed the passing buildings with an indolent eye, picking apart the muddy walls and grey stones which rose above and around them. She supposed the place would be beautiful in the right weather, how the architecture, though careworn and dirty, was still handsome. That was how most things were, she reflected, if not seen in the proper settings they could be quite unappealing, but given a chance they may reveal themselves to be more than first thought.
"I built a frigate in a meadow, because I'd forgotten how to sail..."
the words welled up from her chest, learned long ago or overheard and since forgotten only now to return like a loyal pet.