“What are you doing here… and with a star elven wench!?!” an unkempt grizzled half-elven man in forester’s garb more than three times Courynn’s age confronted him venomously. He’d been drinking with several other middle-aged men at the bar when they entered the Taproot. But, while the others only turned a baneful eye to him, this one leapt to his feet to intercept them. After leaving their meeting with Dervila and parting with Talice when they left the Master’s Hall, they’d spent the morning wandering the market square, securing the provisions and supplies they needed in anticipation of returning to the woodlands and their search for Nymara’s sister. While she was greeted cordially, even having some merchants soliciting her attentions, all the half-elven vendors had the attitude that serving him was somehow beneath them, although they readily took his gold. Now, at nearly high-sun, they’d retired to the Taproot for lunch, only to be accosted just steps inside the door. “My business is none of yours… nor is who I choose to be with… old man,” Courynn growled in response, his voice uncharacteristically thick with just as much distaste, as he escorted Nymara past the man, not even showing him the respect of meeting his challenge. It seemed like the man would strike at him while they moved passed, but he only stood there fuming for a moment, then turned back to his pint and she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d seen Courynn’s skill in the martial arts first-hand, as he easily crushed an orc’s skull with a single blow and had no doubt that had the man attacked him, he was more than capable of defending himself with lethal force… but was thankful that it hadn’t come to that. “Who was that?” she asked, her voice heavy with concern, as they settled into a small table by the far wall while casting furtive glances at the unidentified man, who now seemed content to nurse his ale and seethe rather than force any further confrontation. In all the time she’d traveled with him, she’d never seen Courynn react so hostilely to anyone, despite how poorly they treated him. “Faelar Wildhart… my father… or more accurately the man who sired me,” he responded, the bitterness in his voice being nearly palatable. Then, seeing the confusion on her face he explained further; “Telstaerr is Aglarondan… a human name. It was my mother’s. Even though he was forced to take me in and raise me in his house when she died in childbirth, he refused to let me take his name. Just one of the many ways he and his family made sure that I knew I wasn’t one of them… or welcome there. I’m told he was supposed to be a hunter of some repute in his day… but it always seemed to me that he downed more pints than game. Just one more thing I’m sure they find some way to blame me for.” Sitting quietly for several long minutes, while holding his hand comfortingly, she eventually admitted softly; “I’ve always been a disappointment to my father. Never the proper lady he wanted me to be… that was Calastra. But I never doubted that my family loved me… or that I’d be welcomed home should I ever choose to return to Sildeyuir.” Smiling at her compassion, he replied snidely; “I’ve never doubted it either… I always knew they didn’t.”