Skjoldr tramped through the natural debris caused by the now heavy rain. His plated boots cut through mud and dead leaves with ease, sinking and lifting with splashes of muddied water and soft, squelching noises of the forest floor trying to keep the boot locked into the carpet that was dirt (now mud), flacid leaves and broken branches. His cloak, dulled in colour and tattered with age, collected the dirt at its frayed, dragging edge and Skjoldr made very little notion clear that he was in any way bothered by it.
He was in home territory and trespassing at the same time, breaking his own exile to reclaim something that had (and still did) rightfully belong to him. The only problem was that his father, who would now be an ailing elder, kept it underneath the floorboards in a locked casket. The fallen Nord lord didn't desire to steal from his father, but he knew that revealing himself to his only remaining parent would mean death for one or the other.
And still...after all these years...he couldn't bring himself to that position...he couldn't risk killing his father as he feared that that would be the final straw in his alredy frayed mentality, to finally push him over that dangerous precipice and lose himself in the dark maw that stretched before him. Insanity.
The cloak (and hood) was of fine make, soft, strong and resilient, but now it was damp and heavy, barely performing its purpose as the rainwater with which it was saturated, slightly soaked through to his blonde hair and dampened it on the crown to a strange colour between brown and black. His handsome, strong face was streaked with water, earth and blood (not his) as if he had been kissed upon the brow by the spirits of nature and warfare. He figured that it would work in his favour, the less he could be recognized the longer he could remain in Falkreath, and so, he took the kisses as a blessing.
He approached the gates and the guards didn't stop him, content not to trouble themselves with the determined looking man who, in all fairness, looked as if he could shatter their bones over his knee or snap them in two. They were already having an awful, sombre time in this Gods-forsaken rain without having 'beaten to death by large stranger' added to their list. The one on the left was the only of the two to offer Skjoldr a second glance as he passed within the Hold Capital, mentioning something to his grouchy partner, who was sat on a tree stump, about how nice Skjoldr's boots were and how the insignia on the heel (however muddied and dulled) seemed familiar. His guard partner told him to 'Piss off and keep looking at the rain like the pillock he was'. So, they returned to being miserable.
Assuming, that after his years of exile his father may have moved his accomodation somewhere else, and also that he was dog-tired after traversing the damnable province for a month or so with no true bed, he decided to enquire at the local inn...which he still found to be called Dead Mans Drink and his heavy feet seemed to walk themselves there as they found comfort in familiarity. After all, he was a noble of this hold, grew up here, mourned, loved, played and fought here...His heart rejoiced but his mind was more cautious in its jubilation and thus resulted in a troubled figure which filled the small wooden doorway and cast a large, ominous shadow.
He hadn't wanted it...but how his frame filled the doorway, caught the attention of anyone who wasn't inebriated and saturated in ale, and caused lingering looks as he tramped to the bar; the barkeep taken a little aback as she was faced with this nord who was soaking wet and smeared with dirt and blood on his flesh and worn, strangely dark armour. Also, she gained a queasy mix of curiousity and fear as the sopping hood cast an unlikeable shadow upon the mans obscured, but otherwise handsome face. He was unkempt and smelled of earth and blood, but she still felt the need to point out;
"Good Gods love, you'll catch your death in those wet clothes!"
He sighed and sat upon one of the sturdy stools, peeling his hood back and then ruffling his hair that was straggled with damp with a hand covered in gauntlet (which he proceeded to take off and allow his large, calloused paw to feel the warm wood of the bar top), yet his hair started to lighten in the warm tavern enviroment. He dwarfed the stool and even the nord next to him, with his height, yet his armour also made him out to be some kind of behemoth, making him seem larger than he was (even though he was still rather muscular and broad underneath the metal and leather).
"Do you want a rag to wipe that face of yours?" The women asked as she cleaned out an empty flagon absentmindedly, fully concentrating on the strangers visage. "It'd be a shame not to see that handsome face."
He chuckled a little at the flattery and gave a nice, friendly smile along with a polite "Please." Skjoldr proceeded to wipe his face with the warm, relatively clean cloth and thanked the pleasantness of the woman; eventually striking up a nice, slightly flirty, conversation.
Until Skjoldr mentioned the Wild-Blood family and she faltered in her response, shifting uncomfortably (as did some others who were in earshot).
"Nasty business that is..." was all she would say, "that massacre at Half-Moon...no wonder that its only the mill that is left...I hope that son of his rotted in the wilderness, they should have beheaded him, thats what they should of done..."
Skjoldr felt a little green, so there was still a high level of hostility, he was glad that he had been away for some years and changed a little.
"What of the father? Angvald. Is he still in town?"
"No, he was killed by bandits in a recent raid, the Jarl put a bounty them...letter's over there..."
