And so the rage builds

 Fortu had never felt such a simmering rage, in the pits the rage and violence was explosive, then over - win or loss. But in the days after they left Scar Burrow and the very nearly terminal meeting with Deleon he felt a pressure building. He attempted to vent at the soldiers escorting them, accompanying them whenever they arrived at an overnight stop, his looming brooding presence unsettling the hosts rather than the ever professional guards. Try as he might he could not fault their manner or the way they handled the caravan, by now Barbella would have stolen half the supplies and Doberman eaten the other half.

He tried to distract himself showing interest in the little shrines they past, learning from Banaal and Rifkin the meanings and gods involved. None settled him. By the time they entered into the small village of 'FarHaven' he was on edge, even the calm plodding of Maurice was annoying.

He was hoping that a night in a good inn, dry bedding and good old human stodge food washed down with ale would ease the tension he felt at every step.

The locals hushed as Fortu and his friends entered the tavern, blatant looks of  'who the frik are you' before returning to their own company. Fortu noticed a couple of men over at the back who didn't have the typical farmers homespun clothing and their gaze lingered just a moment longer than was polite.

'those two - kill them'

Grabbing two tankards of ale Fortu pushed his way over to their table. It was evident they had no desire for him to join them but he dragged over an extra chair and sat. The same red haze and low base hum descended. Fortu could not remember exactly what was said but as their hands reached for knives his fist lashed out, clumsily missing the closest. With trained reflexes the two pulled knives free and moved either side of Fortu, the one in front slashed out but it was easily deflected by his armour. The one who had slipped behind stabbed high and with a remarkable precision found a gap. The sharp pain was like a bucket of ice water to the face, the haze lifted and the hum went quiet. A lifetime of training kicked in, he went from rage fuelled brute to efficient killer. The man in front died in two quick strokes, spinning he drew the 'awesome' blade to a stop at the throat of the other.

The gasps and whispers from the crowd reminded Fortu of just where he was 'now we take this outside and you answer my questions and maybe that will be the end of bloodshed tonight' 

'no kill more'

Outside in the stables Fortu felt the others were mightily relieved when the remaining knifeman admitted he was working for the witches and even more relieved and a bit surprised when he left him alive.

'ah my son you think you are free, we the many will show you real freedom'