It's rather fitting that a storm should accompany the pirate into Helovia.

The forest shakes with the force of the winter tempest, its trees battered by howling winds and its grasses pinned flat by crashing rain. It's so cold that the hammering droplets are a mixture of hail and rain, a blizzard serenaded by the roars of thunder and flashes of forked lightning. The frigid drops clatter like icy bullets into the face of anybody unfortuate enough to remain outside during the cruel weather, and the vast majority of animals have seized the opportunity to dive into their burrows or snuggle in their dens.

Bartholomeo does not hide. He stands with the wind in his face and his eyes narrowed to slits against the blizzard, his proud antlered head held high and his mane twisting around his muscular neck like ship's rope. His nostrils flare as he sniffs the air, hunting for the telltale salt of the sea. He finds nothing, but that doesn't mean he won't.

His journey has been long. After having his worldy goods stolen by the vagabonds who attacked him, the stag pursued their scent for days to try and reclaim his multitude of taken items. Alas, he was met with little success. The thieves scattered to the four winds, each taking one or more of his belongings with them. It was impossible for Bartholomeo to pursue them all, although he damn well tried. He feels naked without his possessions as he marches through these unfamiliar trees, unused to the lack of weight on his sides from his swords and the absence of the belt that they used to swing from. The bastards even took the decorative rope that he used to keep twined around his hindlegs, which irks him just as much as the lack of his weapons. His swords were fine blades, coveted by almost anyone who met them, so the stallion is hardly surprised that the thieves chose to take them - but his rope? The sentimental value it carried made it precious only to him, and it sticks in his craw that the rogues would even see fit to snatch it as well as everything else.

The thing he misses most, though, is the sash that he kept bound tightly around the girth of his barrel, a green blast of colour against the earthy tones of his skin. It makes his throat constrict and his stomach twist into knots as he thinks of Carlisle's precious sash, and the fact he'd been unable to keep it safe. Just like his precious sister herself, the one item that reminds him of her has been snatched from him, and he's sworn a thousand painful deaths on the man who took it. He will find it, even if it's the last thing he does.

He does not know what brings him into Helovia. It is simply a happy accident born of his attempts to follow the thieves, but as he stalks through unfamiliar trees in the midst of a thunderous tempest in the skies, he feels something different about the place. It's like he knows that he's entering somewhere of great importance, and it makes him oblivious to even the foul weather. Another quick stiff of the air proves fruitless, because the vagabonds could be anywhere. At least he managed to keep one of his weapons - a small, beautifully carved steel knife with a bone hilt, far less effective than his swords but better than nothing. Without his belt to hold it, he's forced to stash it in his mane and hope gravity works in his favour, which is less than ideal. The stallion has never felt more vulnerable. "Bloody thieving bastards," he growls to himself.

Finally, he pauses beneath the shade of a massive oak tree. The rain continues to drive into his face and his coat is sodden with it, but Bartholomeo is no stranger to being sopping wet with the elements. He's too hardy a man to be bothered by a bit of a storm, quite the contrary - he revels in it. So the world finds him stood beneath a tree, deciding to rest his stocky limbs before he continues his quest deeper into the forest to try and find those sword-stealing shitbags and enact a revenge that he's determined to make very satisfying. 

There's a blurred figure in the distance, barely visible through the pounding rain. The pirate narrows his earthy green eyes to try and focus on the stranger, but it isn't until the colt is almost on top of him that he can finally make him out.

His heart lurches, a savage twisting of his emotions. The kid looks like Jack, his precious dead son; for a moment Bartholomeo thinks it is him, his sorrow-cloaked mind desperate to seek any comfort in the notion that maybe the boy isn't gone. Impossible, he knows; he'd cradled the little body, cried into the livid crimson smile that used to be his son's neck, prayed to all the Gods he's never believed in to make his boy whole again. A grieving parent will go to any lengths to try and believe that their child isn't dead. It's been three years, but not a day goes by when Bartholomeo doesn't think that he sees Jack's face playfully peering from the hollow of a tree, or hear his boyish laugh in the billowing of the wind.

No, this little antlered fellow cannot be Jack, but the resemblance is quite uncanny. Bartholomeo's beloved boy had those same pale antlers, that earthy-coloured coat, the flaxen mane and tail. One thing he didn't have, though - and the little ray of hope in the stag's chest finally dies, even though the rest of him had accepted seconds ago that this couldn't be his son - was the distinctive tree marking that denoted one of their family. He remembers how disappointed he'd been when his only son was born without the tree, how he'd laughed with Gráinne and good-naturedly blamed her for their boy's missing marking. What he'd give to have his Jack running alongside him once again, tree marking or no.

The stag realises that he's been absently staring at the boy for a few seconds now, and he quickly shakes himself out of his stupour with a flick of his rain-soaked head. "Hey there, little fella," comes the pirate's booming Welsh tones, hearty and good-natured despite the sudden stab of misery that has invaded his soul. This is someone else's precious son, someone else's heir, and the stallion can only pray that this one lives the long and fruitful life that Jack was never allowed to.

Are you lost? Through the storm, Bartholomeo gives another cheerful chortle. "Oh no, I never get lost! I just, um, don't know where I am." He offers the lad a wink. Damn, but he does look like Jack....and he doesn't know of any other families who produce that tree marking. Could he have stumbled upon a nest of his siblings? The colt highlights his tree marking and remarks on the one that stains Bartholomeo's neck, but that revelation fades into nothingness as the boy gives his name. Byron. A nostalgic smile spreads across the pirate's handsome face. "Byron, eh? That's a good strong name. You know, when I was a lad, my nickname was Byron. Your mother and father have excellent taste." A wave of memories roll over him, and a warm grin brightens his features. "Who're your parents, Byron?" Could it possibly be that he's come to this place to find his missing items, but instead found his family? "I'm Bartholomeo."

You bastard! The serenity around the man and boy suddenly explodes as the very familiar voice penetrates his ears. The pirate turns, hardly able to believe what he's hearing, to see Aelfwine. His heart skips a beat. One shouldn't have favourites amongst their siblings, but he'd been particularly close to Aelfwine. She'd lived with him for so long, had known his wife and son, and he fancies that he taught her quite a lot during the time that they ran together. His crew adored her as well, although he doesn't know how much of that was down to her innate beauty - pirates love an attractive wench.

She'd also been there on the day his life was torn apart. He'd lost her in the chaos, and then afterwards....Afterwards, he just existed. Finding her had been the last thing on his mind, as shameful as that sounds.

"Aelfwine," he greets, injecting cheer into his hearty voice. They can't do this here, not in front of the kid, and ideally not in a howling storm either. "Aelf, I can explain," he pleads, edging closer to her to try and touch his nose to her shoulder in reassurance. "Just...not here. Please." With his gaze, he tries to indicate Byron to her, silently saying he doesn't need to hear this. He prays she listens; she must be furious and has every right to be, but this is not the ideal place to settle their differences.

The pirate takes a step back, jerking his sodden forelock from his eyes. "So," he says conversationally. "What's this place called? And are more of our family here?" He addresses the final question to his sister.

My ma is called Neph, and my dad is called Tilney. The pirate's chest gives an odd lurch, and a warm smile slowly spreads across his battlescarred face. "Well hey, Byron, here's a coincidence for you," he says, his earthy green eyes focused on the youngster. "Tilney is my brother, which makes me your awesome Uncle Bart." Those haunting eyes of his close together in a rogueish wink. It's odd for him to know that other members of his family have children too. He'd thought he was the only parent, as oblivious and selfish as that sounds. Now irony has bitten him on the backside by taking his child away from him and blessing his siblings with offspring of their own.

He doesn't hold it against them. Every living creature deserves to have a child, to know the unbreakable bond that exists between a parent and their offspring, and he's deeply happy for Tilney.

The little nub of guilt locked away in the darkest reaches of his psyche suddenly twinges; he only hopes his brother is a better father than he was.

His attention shifts back to Aelfwine. Thankfully she doesn't press him further, and his gaze darts back to Byron as the colt asks what a bastard is. The pirate almost sputters - damn, that kid doesn't miss a trick. "I'll tell you when you're older, little fella. Also, please don't repeat that word back to your father, or your Uncle Bart might find himself minus a limb or two." Another good-humoured wink follows his statement. He's fairly sure he could beat the ass of any of his brothers even without his weapons, but he'd rather not have his first act on Helovian soil be to teach his nephew a bad word.

Aelfwine introduces herself as the boy's aunt, and it surprises Bartholomeo that the two haven't met before. Surely Tilney would have happily shown off his new son to all of his siblings, and nurtured the same close relationship that they all used to have? Tilney has had quite a few children at this point. The stag's eyes widen; this surprises him, as his brother had always seemed the monogamous sort. Hell, Bartholomeo himself used to restrict himself to one woman, even if he'd hidden his sorrow at the loss of that woman by indulging in the succours of dozens of others. Before this dark thought can sour him further, he quickly passes it off as he usually does - with a brazen comment. "Damn, and I thought I was the family stud." It looks like he'll be having a stern chat with his little brother about the birds and the bees.

I followed Tuppence here, she has … had Carlisle’s remains. The mention of Carlisle makes his gut twitch, and guilt bubbles in his heart again. "Carlisle, may she rest in peace, is why I'm here, actually." He owes his sister an explanation; it's good that he's found family here, but he isn't going to pretend that it happened on purpose. No, it was just a happy accident borne of his desire to hunt down the thieves who took his possessions. "For years I've carried her sash, so that I can always keep her close. A few weeks ago, though, I was attacked and robbed by a roving vagabond band. They took nearly everything from me - my weapons, my trinkets, and the sash." The stallion's normally jovial expression suddenly darkens, and he paws the sodden mud beneath with one dripping hoof. "I've followed one of them here, because I'm going to get that sash back even if it's the last thing I do." That is a vow he does not intend to break.

Byron and Aelfwine have both mentioned herds - the Dragon's Throat and the World's Edge. As much as he would like to join one of them, the stag simply cannot bring himself to live amongst another herd, when he left his pirate band to spend time alone. In addition, he needs all the time and energy he can muster to hunt down the thieves, and a herd may restrict that. "As much as I would like to accompany one of you to your herds - whether I'm invited or not - I need to hunt down the thieves and take back my items. That will be easier alone." He frowns and shakes his rain-soaked mane. "This place definitely has an appeal, though. I can see myself staying here. Is there an ocean nearby?" If so, he can make that his temporary home...he always feels safer by the sea.

He looks at the damp trees, sensing a new adventure on the horizon, before pivoting his ears to try and listen to Byron's answer to Aelfwine's question about where his mother is. The priority will be getting the lad home safe, and maybe giving Tilney a slap around the chops at the same time for his seemingly carefree attitude towards reproduction.