A lone Brunyk sits at the bar of a dimly lit tavern. He draws the last of his cup for a drink, looking down to his hands; scarred from a lifetime of conflict and mercenary work. On one finger is a ring, the face of a bear, the sigil of his clan. Such a long way from the Frozen Bays of the North, a Brunyk stands out amongst the crowd, drawing the attention of some of the less desirable patrons nearby.
“Another round, friend?,” asks the bartender.
Before he can answer, a forked tongue Boernallyean moves to his side.
“New to the city? I can’t help but notice you been stayin here a while, need some work? You Brunyk’s are known for that aren’t you? Muscle and all that.”
The Brunyk stares at the bottles against the bar, seeming to ignore the question. As the candlelight paints the room, the Boernallyean notices the dull features and worn skin of the Brunic before him.
“Well, I’ll be…a gray beard…”
With a slow turn of his hooded head, the Brunyk's icy blue eyes pierce through the Boernallyean, seeming to go straight through him.
“Oh didn’t mean to offend grandad, it’s just, time’s are tough you see, and that little ring of yours, well, it looks like it could really help us out.”
From behind, a group of other undesirables begin to surround the old Brunyk. Before their weapons fully leave their sheathes, the old man smashes the thugs down like a rogue wave on an unsuspecting ship. Suddenly, the beaten bodies of the group smack hard against the floor. The old Brunyk bends down to the Boernallyean as he writhes in pain, reaching into his pocket and alleviating him of his gold. He turns to face the bar again, this time sitting, the creaking of the wooden stool layers itself atop the groans of the men. Looking up at the bartender, he places the newly acquired gold on the counter.
“Another round then,” says the bartender.