With little other choice and no particular leads, the bare-armed swordsman bellowed over the line of refugees, seeking a guide to Kessar Forest. He would've sought a translator, if he hadn't overheard the common tongue in town the previous night. Shock and silence passed over the cat-folk as the entire line stopped to look at him; the man wondered if he'd made a mistake. He prepared energy for his physical enhancement, but something felt off. Two warriors stepped up wearing the deep blue of the port guards; they must've abandoned their brothers when the screaming started. They bore the typical silver fur of The Tribe, but didn't carry any of the firearms he had heard about. Even holding his energy at the ready brought about a slow ache, so he decided to forgo it to be safe. The two started asking how an outsider knew about those woods, and if he had been involved in poisoning the port. He denied it, and even made up a story about getting caught in a storm, but they persisted. It was obvious this wasn't going anywhere the half-elf wanted it to, so he glanced down at the men's belts before taking care of the problem.

His dagger flew up into the neck of the first guard, but the second nearly lopped his arm off. He dodged thrusts as he circled around the dying man, hands at the guard's belt, until the would-be corpse pushed him away. The swordsman drew the large blade from his shoulder as he backed off, and the remaining port guard rounded his flailing comrade. The first one collapsed completely, a broad streak of bright red down the front of his deep blue armor, and the outsider's dagger still in his throat. His comrade faced the man down, eyeing the arm that hung bleeding. The half-elf used only his good arm to wield his large blade, and barely got the thing up before the silver-fur dashed forward and began striking. Though each blow was weak, the speed of them was nearly overwhelming. Right when the swordsman seemed off-balance, his bloody arm whipped up and flung the dead guard's dagger at the other's face.

A desperate parry saved the silver-fur his eye, but he couldn't block the two-handed swing that followed. His blue armor slammed into the black earth, thin blade bent and left side a bloody mess. The half-elf stepped over, breaths heavy and eyes intense, and plunged the bloody blade into the guard's throat. None of the refugees said a word as he cleaned his sword, and retrieved his dagger. He stared at them for a moment, and asked again if anyone could tell him how to get to Kessar Forest. A tall lad loped out of the pack, lanky limbs hanging at his sides, but eyes intense. They flared with hatred when he looked over the blue uniforms on the ground, but his voice was timid when he addressed the man.

"I will show you the way."

The half-elf nodded at the lad, young only for the sound of his voice and brightness of his fur. The older ones all seemed to darken with age. After determining a direction, the pair headed south-east and away from the road flooded with eyes. The young mongrel introduced himself as Tuevo, and after getting far enough away from the rest, the swordsman fished out a few gold coins and dropped them into eager paws. While the young cat-folk looked over his payment, the employer brought a tentative hand up to the shallow gash on his arm. Remembering his earlier caution, he slowly pushed energy into the wound to heal it, and immediately stopped when the pain started. Looking down wide-eyed, he let out a groan as he watched tiny vines grow up out of his flesh and weave together to close the gash. He didn't need the lad's worried reaction to immediately draw his blade, and cut the concerning intruders.

Pulling out the roots was another ordeal entirely; they ran deeper and farther than he expected. Even he couldn't maintain stoic silence as he watched the green vines drag chunks of his muscle out as he pulled. The lad looked on in shock, half-heartedly explaining that magic wasn't to be trusted in these lands.

"Yeah, no shit."

The half-elf continued pulling weeds while the thin cat-kid explained the circumstances; it was a good distraction from the pain. Apparently, some kind of Tap Well existed in these lands, and The Tribe had been responsible for scarring the sky and blackening the land with their magical experiments. The heat in the lad's voice was obvious, and it was a sentiment the swordsman could understand. Once done clearing his wound, his arm looked like some disgusting spider's web of collapsed veins and ruts of flesh. He pulled one pant leg out of his boot and tore off a strip, tying it tightly over the wound as he stood. The look of disgust and shock on the cat-thing's face angered him, so he decided to change the subject. When the half-elf asked why the lad was so willing to guide him when others were not, the boy flared his whiskers.

"I want to join the resistance, and overthrow the Tribe."