The pirate has been a Helovian for a couple of weeks now, yet his search for his belongings has proven utterly fruitless so far. He has hunted everywhere that his hooves land upon, but the thieves seem to have disappeared with the wind. It is deeply frustrating, and Bartholomeo knows that the longer he goes without his items, the more chance that he'll never get them back at all. The scoundrels may have left Helovia by now; he could be heading in completely the opposite direction, guided along a dead trail.

To add to his woes, he has lost his magic, too. He first discovered this unpleasant fact when a lone wolf attempted to prey on him in the forest, something that ordinarily he would have solved by bidding one of his weapons to skewer the opportunistic predator in the heart. He'd reached out with his magic for his one remaining knife, trying to swing it around and deter his would-be assailant from its attempts to kill him. To his utter horror, his blade did nothing. There was no familiar surge of power, no twisting steel plummeting into the flesh of his enemy. Nothing happened. He managed to fight off the wolf with his antlers and hooves, but it left him deeply concerned about the loss of his powers.

There's a certain irony to the situation, he thinks darkly. He, Black Bart, the Scimitar, the greediest, most avaricious and most infamous man in the land, has lost everything precious to him. His wife, his child, his belongings, his fame, his herd, his magic. Perhaps the Gods are punishing him for the sins of his youth by condemning him to eternal misfortune. This is his redemption arc, from rogueish pirate blinded by his own arrogance, to mere pauper with only a knife to his name.

At least when he is by the sea, he can relax and forget his predicament. With a small sigh, the stallion plods across the sand and into the sea, closing his eyes in bliss as the waves lap against his fetlock. "Home," he murmurs, because that's what Helovia is for as long as it takes him to find his things.

Brother. The word on the lips of his favourite sibling causes his melancholy mood to evaporate in a second. Perhaps it is wrong to have favourites, but Aelfwine is the only one of his numerous relatives to have seen him during his peak years. She'd known him when he was the Scimitar, when the mere mention of his name caused a ripple of fear through the bodies of whoever was unfortunate enough to whisper it. She'd known him when he and his crew could march upon anybody else and rise victorious, when their coffers swelled with loot and their bodies ran sleek with the scars of past battles. She'd known him when his swords could whirl around him in a blur, stained with the blood of his enemies. She'd seen his pride before his fall.

She'd known his wife and son, too, the only one of his family privy to that personal bit of information, that broken little fragment of his heart.

"Aelfwine," he greets warmly, a small huff of pleasure falling from his nostrils as she approaches. It's so good to see her again, to reacquaint his eyes with what she looks like and how she acts. Softly he plods forwards, trying to bump his muzzle to hers and gently knock his antlers against hers too, the brotherly greeting he's wanted to give her since the moment he laid eyes on her again.

We have so much to talk about. They do, but the notion of it makes Bartholomeo give a small spasm of pain. Talking about what happened after is going to be one of the hardest things he's ever had to do. He keeps it filed away in the back of his mind, hidden behind his mask of joviality and friendliness, behind his pirate's bravado and roguish smile. Speaking about it will open up the tidal wave of emotions that he's kept hidden for so long, and he's not entirely sure he's ready for that. But he owes Aelfwine the truth.

"Aye, we do. You first, sister. I'm dying to know what you've been up to in the last few years....and if you know what's happened to our brother to turn him from a shy virgin into a veritable womanizer." He forces his trademark rogue's grin, referring of course to Tilney and his sudden spate of babymaking.

Judging from his sister's words, Tilney's sudden change in behaviour was as much a surprise to her as it was to Bartholomeo himself. He's not one to judge, having had his fair share of women since his wife's death, but he's always careful never to father any children with them. To him, the creation of a child is the most beautiful and sacred thing in the world, and should not be done flippantly. Jack's memory is still ripe within his mind, and there's a part of him that wonders if it will ever be possible to love another foal as much as he loved his son. Can Tilney share his love between his living children, or does he treat them as accidents, as shameful secrets to be brushed under the carpet?

Whatever the answer is, the pirate intends to speak with his brother. He doesn't disapprove, not really, but he's keen to know the full story. Now, however, he has his sister to focus upon.

She mentions Arah, and the stallion gives a small pirate's grin. "I remember her. I never forget a pretty face." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Aelfwine reveals that Tilney and Arah had a child together, and the stag stashes Maude's name away for future use - he's sure he will become acquainted with his niece in due course.

The story continues. It transpires that Arah disappeared, but that Tilney didn't take long in getting over her, by planting himself in the undergarments of a pegasus mare. This knowledge makes the man's eyes widen. He's no stranger to women in his bed, but Tilney.... A flippant grin spreads across his face at the image, but suddenly it fades as he realises that Tilney has done no worse than what Bartholomeo himself did in the aftermath of Gráinne and Jack's deaths. He, too, turned to the succour of unknown mares to lessen the pain of the crippling loss; a few moments of heaven could disguise the hell that raged within. Now, he understands Tilney's behaviour, and knows that he cannot possibly judge. "Loss is a powerful aphrodisiac," he says, and his handsome face is darkened with sorrow, his earlier humour long gone. "I can't explain it. It's cowardice, I suppose. Escapism. Rather than facing the source of your loss, it's easier to forget everything for a moment and allow your instincts to take over. For those few blessed moments, you can forget about everything else but the sensations in your body, the blessed blankness of your mind. It isn't healthy, it isn't a long term solution, and there's certainly the risk of unplanned offspring, but...." His voice trails off and he finds himself unable to look her in the eye, lost in his emotions. Quickly he clears his throat and glances upwards. "Has Arah been found?" Without a body to mourn if she really was dead, Tilney couldn't get the closure that the pirate knows he needs.

Keen to guide the conversation away from these dangerous waters, the stag allows his mouth to lapse into a wide smile as Aelfwine reveals how Byron got his name. "It means a lot to me that you would name a child after me. Thank you, Aelfwine." There's genuine warmth in the stallion's eyes and he seeks to nudge his sister gently with his nose again.

She adds that she's no stranger to a bit of fun, and the overprotective brother inside the man makes hims stutter, apopletic. Her playful expression convinces him that she'd been aiming for that exact reaction, and he raises an amused brow, happy to join in with the banter. That's what the pirate is best at - moving from melancholy to easy humour in the space of a few seconds, hiding anything deeper behind a boyish grin and sense of mischief. "I used to tell my men in no uncertain terms that if they dared even think anything lecherous towards you, I would remove their manhood and feed it to them. I might not have bothered if I'd known you were such a slattern." He flashes her a wide grin and darts neatly backwards in case she should aim a displeased hoof towards him. He's joking, of course - as much as it makes his older-brother sentiments bristle, he knows he cannot deny her her pleasure!

His mighty chest sags with relief at the revelation that Arah has been found alive and well. He would not want his brother - or his worst enemy - to go through what he went through with his precious wife, the love of his life. Even thinking about it now makes his heart constrict, as though caught in a vice of pure misery. The stag attempts to clear his mind, not wanting his thoughts to drift in that dangerous and depressing direction. They say time heals, but even several years after the event it's rare that Bartholomeo doesn't dream or think about the double loss of his mate and son. Such grief is simply too immense to ever lose.

He's relieved when Aelfwine speaks again, pulling the ship of his thoughts away from those dangerous waters. He laughs his booming cacophony of a laugh as his sister tells him she wouldn't name a child after him for fear of it turning into a miniaturised version of him, and he thinks with a grin of little Byron. "Poor Tilney. If the name's anything to go by, he's going to have his hands full." The lad had seemed smart, spunky and so beautifully full of life, and again Bartholomeo's thoughts wander lethally towards Jack. He snatches them back with experience born of years of smothering his sorrow, and concentrates his full attention on his sibling.

Unfortunately, the stallion isn't quite as good at getting rid of the images now planted in his head of Aelfwine rolling around in the sack with a whole line of men, some of whom suddenly grow the faces of the pirate's former crew. He shudders and tries to burn the images away with whatever mind-bleach he can get his hooves on. "Mystical whore?" The man's apoplectic voice is punctuated by a great guffaw of laughter. "You should have taken the payment, sister. Might as well fill your pockets from the misfortune of the poor bastard." He flashes her a grin then quickly jumps out of kicking range.

That smile of his fades slightly as she asks if he intends to stick around. The simple answer is yes, but the reason why is both humiliating and fury-inducing. "Well, you may have noticed I'm lacking a few possessions now." He's still not used to feeling so light, to having his sides be devoid of the comforting clang of his swords. "I was ambushed just outside Helovia, and the vagabonds took everything. My weapons, my trinkets, even Carlisle's sash." Here his handsome face creases into a troubled frown. "The thieves ran into Helovia, hence my appearance here, then scattered to the four winds. I intend to hunt them down, retrieve my possessions, and kick the ever-living shit out of them for good measure." He stomps an authoritative hoof. "Keep an eye out for anybody with items that look like mine, sister. And try not to sleep with them." He flashes her another wolfish, cheeky grin.

Again it fades as he realises the time may have come for him to talk about what happened, to fill in the gaps between this meeting and their last. "I suppose it is my turn to tell the story," he says, and his eyes grow haunted in anticipation.