A month of travel rations, a few pairs of clothes he'd scavenged from his quarters, the remains of his shattered auronite, and the permanent stain on his honor. That was all Tyr had been left with. Even his accounts in Amistad were frozen, the banks were everywhere, located in every major city in the known world and many satellite offices in the smaller towns. He'd stopped at the town of Heron to check, only to be denied access and nearly executed by guards that had caught him insisting he was the son of Jartor Faeron when he'd been detained.

Treated like some kind of criminal, some vagrant undesirable.

Rumors were commonplace regarding Tyr's unknown status. At least Jartor had some honor left in him, to preserve that which he could of Tyr's own, but not his mothers. Official notice said that Tyr was missing in action, possible dying heroically in battle against Hastur's grotesques.

His mother, though... She was an adulterer and the rumors surrounding her became more sickening and wild every time he heard them. A witch who had seduced the primus, her legacy left in tatters and denied publicly, supposedly, even by her own clan. Birthing a false primus and committing the foulest of crimes. Tyr didn't know what was true, either way. He couldn't trust his father after both feeling and seeing what he was capable of. The man... No, the primus. They were all monstrous. Mad and stuck in their unnatural loop.

He fled west, the best logical direction. Away from everybody and everything he had ever known. Into the westerlands and into the state of Karth. All wetlands, a vast river delta full of rice patties and vast fish hatcheries all surrounding a city of stone pillars. Wave watchers and citizens plodded along on their stilt-legged 'steeds'. They called them ungulans, with the legs of a stork and body of an... A vaguely scaled anteater is what he might've called them. Not a single bit of fur on them, hairless leather-skinned things that made foul belching noises, expelling gas with near every step. Running effortlessly through the wetlands on their four surprisingly nimble appendages.

They didn't look very smart to Tyr. Dull eyed chewers of cud and fish alike, but they were the official mounts of wetland Karth. The ground was too sodden for normal horses. Adapted quite a bit. It was the most 'free' of all the provinces, or so he'd been told when passing through one of the legion checkpoints. A proud people that claimed their own ancestry and acted apart from the social convention of the east. More unitary, a tighter knit community, with a strong and independent ethnic identity.

Karth was much more diverse than the interior. Races of all kinds were arrayed about the city and on the ships plying the waters below. The entirety of which was balanced on incredibly large discs stretched over an idyllic lagoon. Hundreds of pillars of various sizes with businesses and residences alike either strapped to them precariously or built on the platforms. A strange look to the place, leaving one wondering how it all hadn't come crashing down into the water. Built like a multi-tiered basket lay upside down over the sea with the boats finding more than enough space to pass below and dock at specific pillars equipped with lifts and pulleys.

The scenic overlook of the bay, the incredible bridges and more than a few races he didn't recognize. What Karth was known for among traveling men were its pubs and brothels, and the less restrictive laws in the city. Or so he'd heard. And all told, they couldn't have been entirely wrong. Okami lounged on his lap while he sampled their signature beer. Chilled, like always, and like everything else in the place it had a salty taste to it. It was so different. Different than Amistad, the capital, Taur, all of these places and people were so unique, lost in their own little bubbles amidst the idiosyncrasies of their societies.

Near everything in Karth was made of light hued wood or flexible bamboo, except for the pillars that supported the various buildings and the platforms balanced on top of them. Those must've been granite but he wasn't in a mood to go toying with them. Little more than rickety shacks on stone plates with suspension bridges connecting it all together like a web woven by a drunken spider. It really was a strange world, easily observed here in this disorganized mass. Appearances contrasted by the orderly causeways and streets directed at every corner by a professional crier yelling out directions and organizing traffic.

Below in the water, boats were pushed along by tremendously long poles, cutting through the calm surface of the bay with expert precision. It wasn't a bad place necessarily, but Tyr couldn't help but feel like he might fall off into the ocean any moment. He didn't like deep water, and while he was confident in his ability to swim, he felt an eerie sense of dread looking off into those depths.

The beer was good – but they'd done too much with it. Infused it with some fruit to add an unwelcome sweetness, and more hops than were necessary. Something about the hops acting as a natural preservative for long voyages. It was a port city, after all, so it made sense.

As for the food, it was mostly fish and grainy bread, lighter affairs with unique sauces for every individual dish, half of it pickled or cured. Not awful, but not the hole he'd imagined disappearing into, and there was no oakenshot here. Not the place to hang his boots for much longer, just a temporary resting place, and it was so obscenely loud he didn't think he'd get much of that.

The only quiet place were the gothic arches of the black keep looking over everything from the sheer spur of rock that shot up from the water near the center of the city. The only edifice that seemed build in a relatively normal way.

“This place reeks of fish.” Someone hissed.

“That would make sense considering that it is a port city.”

“Smells better than the capital, whatever the case.”

A grunt of agreement came, and four men surrounded Tyr. He had no need to look up to realize who they were.

“How'd you find me?”

“Walked, asked around, hard to miss stories of a giant wolf and the young man who rides it. Real pain in the ass considering you move so fast, but we did it. Nice of you to leave a trail of bodies on the way here, too. Why Karth? Didn't take you for having dreams of being a swabbie.”

“Headed to the republic... Maybe. I don't know.” Tyr said, looking directly into Tiber's eyes. “Been a while. Too busy boot-licking to give your nephew a proper greeting?”

The older man snorted, cuffing Tyr on the back of the head. Surprised at how much his hand hurt when he snatched it away. The princes, or the man who had been a prince... His skull was as hard as iron, and his gaze far harder, Tiber could tell that it was taking all of Tyr's self control to refrain from striking him back.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm sorry.” That all Tyr could say. It was quite clear by the cut of Tiber's uniform and distinct lack of brooch that he had no more boot to lick. Dismissed, albeit honorable by the looks of it.

“Blackguard don't exist no more, lad.” Mikhail seated himself across from Tyr, followed by Fennic and Samson. Tiber joined Tyr on his side of the table, Okami hopping playfully into his lap for scratches. “Means you can't order us around like the common thuggery. I'm a retired man, now, here to live my dreams. Savvy?”

The room they all sat in was dark, the pub wasn't so busy in the working hours and only a few oiled lanterns to light the place. Karth wasn't much for large hearths and chimney stacks, with the threat of a fire and all. A grim, dreary place.

“How did you find me so fast? Most of you were in Amistad and I've only been gone a few weeks at most.”

“Trade secret. Got some friends in low places, we do.” Mikhail winked. “So, its Lyra for us?” Fennic remained silent, helping himself to a plate of fried squid and finding it better than he'd expect. Calamari they called it, a dish from lost Trafalgar, fried in oil and salted. Everything here was salted. Tyr's boots, the hull of every ship, the people, the food. Hells... Even the beer.

“Us?” Tyr asked. “There is no us. I'm leaving and I won't be returning for some time. If ever. You already said it – the blackguard is done and you don't owe me anything. I can't even pay you – I'm broke.” He rattled the purse of spare coins he'd managed to scrounge from the inside of his ring. No insignificant amount, fifty silvers and a few copper pence. A kings ransom for a farmer, maybe a years worth of supplies for Tyr. By the speed at which he drank, he knew it wouldn't last a quarter of that.

Then again, he'd robbed the bandits and killed them to get this much and he was sure he could find the less savory anywhere else in the world. Robbing them paid better than most bounties might exist on their head if he'd given time to re-purpose their loot and fence it all.

“You already blew through the four thousand credits you boasted of?” Samson squinted, soft around the mouth. It was milder here courtesy of the sea, but it was a hot and humid day, giving his dark skin an almost metal-like sheen. His braids were tied back in a tail and he was out of his armor, showcasing his incredibly wide shoulders and drawing no shortage of appraising stares. Like that of an ox, every man here fancied himself able in body until they'd seen that one. “We need to have a conversation about drawing up a budget and sticking to it.”

“No.” Tyr had once possessed just shy of three thousand gold sovereigns worth of liquid funds. And whatever Ella would've managed to put away for him with the business venture he'd funded. Both of which were no longer accessible to him. He explained this to the others, earning a overly wet laugh from Fennic and an exhausted exhalation of the nose from Tiber.

It didn't take a genius to realize that he could have simply asked Jartor for the money. Highly unlikely as it was that the primus had been monitoring the contents of the vault. He was a watchful man, but the contents of the vaults were confidential unless an official inquiry were to be made. The banking clans took their oaths very seriously, and Jartor was one to respect the process. Tyr was just too proud, too far gone into that particular sin to ask for help. He'd earn his way, and so far he had. Though unfortunately those few bandits he'd chased down were broker than he was. And the one apostate he'd found by accident had managed to get away. Leaving Tyr to put his body back together and change into one of his few pairs of clean clothes.

Not a very skilled mage but Tyr wasn't much good in a fight once real magic was involved. He still hadn't solved that particular issue, though he'd managed to cripple one of the mans arms so perhaps there was some progress.

“See?” Tyr concluded. “Like I said, I cannot pay you. I'm glad to have one last drink with you all -” A lie. He felt very much the opposite in this moment. All he really felt was the empty void that had saturated every corner of his being. “- But it's about time we went our separate ways. I'm a man now and I've no need of your services. You owe me nothing.”

“It's not about owing anyone.” Mikhail grunted. “For the old man...” He jerked his head toward Tiber. “It's about his oath. Not to you, but to your mother. Am I right?” Tiber gave Mikhail a fearsome look, but nodded nonetheless. The 'old man' was dressed light for the road, wearing no armor on his person. Loose fitting linens and the old longsword still belted at his waist. Graying hair cut high and tight to ward against the summers heat. “For Fennic and I, it's not like we have much to go back to, reckon Sammy's motivations are fair similar. You say your a grown man, but so are we. We'll do as we please, and you can't stop us.” He cleared his throat. “Well, you can try with that fancy magic of yours, but I've two silvers to add to that purse if you think it faster than the back of my hand.”

“Mm.” Tyr loathed it, but there was no use in arguing with them. They could do as they pleased, and he'd do the same, ditching them at the first opportunity. “And what of the others?”

“Tor and the others offer their well wishes. I believe he and a few besides joined up with Brotherhood merc units. As for the rest, I don't know. As you might imagine, at the first sign of their wages running dry I reckon they behaved similar. Ajax and his kin wait outside. Beastkin without trade licenses or official charters are not permitted in the city.”

“Ajax.” Tyr mused. “I would've thought for sure that he'd have made himself scarce and to the south as he'd planned. How many of the beastkin remain?”

“Most of them.”

“Why?”

“Said they couldn't ask for much more than a fight, consistent meals, and somewhere to go. Said you had a unique talent for getting yourself into a scrap, looks like your actions during the fighting in Amistad left quite an impression on them. Figure they expect you to keep getting yourself into trouble, makes it easier.”

Tyr just shrugged, he'd be walking this path of his alone but if they wanted to stick around whatever city he bunked in he'd be willing to relent.