Birds chirped in song as the sun rose over a quiet forest. A lone man rode through the early morning mist, his breath clouding in front of him before dissipating into the air. A lone hawk circled over him as his horse loped lazily toward a small clearing. The mans matted, medium length dark brown hair hung in his face as he looked over the side of the grey spotted mare, his golden eyes studying the frozen ground for tracks. The hawk shrieked, its mighty cry echoing off the mountains. Ice formed on the whiskers beneath his chin and the tips of the exposed braids of his hair, making him shudder and pull his cloak closer.

"Blasted British seasons." He mumbled to himself, a slight lilt to his voice as his accent stood out. Raising a hand, he smoothed his iced fingers over the tribal tattoos that marked his high cheekbones. A shrill whistle pierced through the peaceful quiet and the majestic bird landed on his outstretched arm, it's head turning side to side as if studying him.

"What do you say about going home?" The man crooned affectionately to the hawk, his other hand stroking its soft feathers as one would a lover's cheek. The hawk looked at him skeptically but made no other sounds.

"I know it's not Sarmatia," He replied to her stare. "But it's as much a home as we have now."

She ruffled her feathers, reaching down to nip at his fingers affectionately. A small smile graced his bearded lips and he spurred his horse onward, on the path back to Badon Hill.

The lights of the tavern brought warmth to the otherwise cold night. Music, laughter, and drink drew many people to its embrace. The man shook off the cold as he stepped into the large courtyard that stood in the center of the inn.

"Tristan!" A cheerful voice called out, a hand warmly grasped his shoulder. The man, Tristan, grunted and shook off the touch.

"Gawain." He nodded; taking out a dagger and an apple he sauntered over to his usual place, in one of the secluded corners near the back of the tavern.

It's warmer back here, anyways. Tristan concluded, satisfied by watching his fellow Knights drink and act merry. Galahad, the youngest, with his curly brown locks and charming smile that could surely win any woman, sat next to his older brother, Gawain.

Gawain had a barmaid in his lap, laughing as he swigged down his ale. The busty barmaid blushed and laughed at whatever the cheerful knight had just said, her slender hands running through his long honey blond hair. Not unlike Tristan, he had a short blond beard, but unlike Tristan he had startling green eyes. Next to Gawain sat Lancelot, womanizer and second-in-command to their leader Artorius. The wench is his lap was clearly drunk, her loud obnoxious laughter echoed through the tavern. Lancelot had that effeminate face that seemed to attract women. He certainly had enough in bed with him at the end of the day. His black, curly hair and mysterious look probably did all the work for him.

Tristan remembered some of Lances 'woman advice'.

"Whatcha gotta do is take em." The black haired man gestured wildly, flinging his hands everywhere as his slurred sentences made their way out of his mouth. Tristan held up the obviously drunk man, his arm around his waist as he dragged his brother-in-arms back to the knight's quarters.

"Take 'em. And then, And then... What was I talking about?"

The scout snorted and eyed the woman walking down the corridor with a glare. The women scurried away, putting a stop the leering that they were giving the defenseless man.

"About taking them..." He said quietly.

"OOOOH right! You gotta take em, Tris, and you gotta make em swoon em. They seem to like the whole mysterious look, know what I'm sayin'. You surely have that, y'know, but you also have that...that...that 'Ima kill you if you get too close vibe' too. Gotta stop doing tha- whydoyadothaman? You scare all the women away."

Tristan sliced off a chunk of apple and set to examining the rest of his comrades. Next to Lancelot sat Bors, one of his many children on his knee. He was the innkeeper, Vanora's, man. It wasn't the other way around either. The mighty Vanora's temper was a force of reckoning, making even the fearsome Saxons quiver in their boots and mess themselves. Bors's shaved head nodded up and down as he listened to his child, the little one whispering something excitedly in his father's ear. The large scar on the left side of the warriors face was visible in the low light the torches, making him seem more serious and fearful than he actually was. It was almost comical to see him loving his child.

Dagonet sat next to his friend, sipping his ale little by little. The group's healer wasn't much of a drinker, or talker. He almost rivaled Tristan in that category, but not by much. The quiet-spoken warrior had a shaved head like Bors. They had come from Sarmatia together, both from the same tribe, which explained the closeness of the two.

The scout was startled out of his thoughts by a tiny hand on his leg. The brown eyes of one of Vanora's children, Eight, stared up at him. Looking down at the boy, the hunter scowled, watching as the tiny child's lip quivered, and his thumb was instantly sucked into his mouth. Sighing, Tristan put his index finger under Eights chin as tug his little head up. The child's brown locks swayed at the movement.

"Sarmatian boys don't cry, you hear me?" Tristan said quietly, earning a few surprised looks at the knight. He ignored them. "You stop right now, or I'll never tell you where your mum hides the honey."

Those big chocolate eyes lightened up immediately and he nodded enthusiastically.

"No cry." He said through sniffs." I no cry more, Tris."

Tristan nodded, content. He motioned the child to come closer and leaned down to whisper quietly in Eights tiny ear. Eight squealed and launched himself into Tristan's legs, giving the scouts legs a tight squeeze before rushing off into the kitchen.

The night was growing older and older, yet still the drinks kept coming. Eventually the calls of his brothers drew him toward their table. Tristan plunged his dagger in front of Gawain, startling his blond friend.

"Oh, Tristan!" He looked up into the intimidating mans face, smiling. "Nice of you to join us!"

Nodding, the scout sat down and was silent. Soon after, the silence that had settled over the tavern broke and the tattooed man yanked his dagger out of the wood.

Gawain stood up and wobbled, the barmaid in his lap tumbling off onto the floor. Tristan snorted when she huffed indignantly and tried to stand up steadily, to no avail. Her breath reeked of alcohol as she stumbled too close to him and he leaned back accordingly.

"I CHALLENGE you!" Gawain slurred, pointing at Tristan unsteadily. The aforementioned knight raised one eyebrow and went back to carving a pattern on the table.

"You couldn't hit a fly with a needle." He stated coolly, taking a guess at what Gawain was challenging him to. The stool that was tied to a post not far from the table was filled with indents from countless knives being thrown into it.

The tall blond knight snorted and slid one of his daggers from his belt. A stupid grin adorned his face as he waved the shiny object in front of Tristan.

"Try me."

Tristan sighed, but stood up, readying his dagger. He bowed to Gawain, smirking.

"Drunks first."

"I am NOT drunk!" He flailed his arms, moving the sharp blade to and fro. Barmaids scrambled out of the way, keen not to be sliced open whilst at work. Without another word Gawain threw the knife, its blade hitting the center of the wood with a satisfying THWAK. Studying the hilt of his blade, he scout threw the dagger lazily, its blade splitting the hilt of his opponents dagger. Gawain rolled his eyes, sauntering over to pull both daggers out of the wood.

"Cheater." He mumbled, sitting down and cradling his ale to him like a newborn babe.

Galahad looked at Tristan in awe. He knew the man was good with knives, but this?

"Hey, Tris? How'd you manage to do that every single time?"

Grabbing another apple from his pocket, the knight shrugged.

"I aim for the middle."