After a few moments, as the victor finally stood again, there was a couple groans and a couple cheers from the crowd as money, slaves, and other 'precious' things were traded among those that had bet on the fight. Once the victor was sure his legs were stable, he reached down and grabbed the arm of the unconsious man, tossing him over his shoulders and slowly making his way towards the ruins, the crowd parting for him. Cromir's word would hold true, their squabble was settled and the victor was taking the loser to what could barely be called an infirmary. With the amount of time that had passed, the bandits were content for now. Feasting, drinking, more friendly bouts of fighting, and even a case of blatant fucking had taken the focus of them during this celebration. More disputes were formed, but with the state the camp was in, they were quickly settled by Cromir. It was chaos, but it was organized at least. Cromir ran his crew tough, and none of them seemed to mind. At least, not right now.<br/><br/>More food and drink were brought to both Feryn and Cromir and, before long, two empty kegs turned tankards sat against his throne and a third was in his hand. He seemed no worse for wear, whether it be his toxic magic dulling the poison that is natural alcohol or simply a high constitution. But regardless, as the day began to draw to an end, Cromir had one more bit of entertainment in mind. The mountain of a man stood, his feet firm beneath him for the time being. With a gesture to Faryn, he led her off of the stage. His gait was a bit unsteady, not as composed and authoritative as it was before. The alcohol was affecting him, it seems. Cromir whistled again and gestured for one of the more 'important' looking bandits -an older looking man with a pair of half broken spectacles on his nose- to join their little walk. Cromir led the pair of them up to the pole and opened the shackles. The moment the restraints were open, Cromir turned to Faryn with a malicious grin.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#00ff00">"Now, unless you want to serve the whole camp, I suggest you step forward,"</span>he said to Faryn, gesturing towards the pole.<br/><br/>Once his order to Faryn had been given, Cromir turned to the older man, talking in hushed tones about getting a salve and some bandages. The bandit leader did not want what was to come to grow infected. And he did not want his bedding to be covered in more blood than was necessary. He was going to mark her as his. Something that could only be obtained as a reward by the others. Something for them to stare at and long for, but be too afraid to reach for without being told that they could. As he finished his conversation with the older man, Cromir's hand wandered to the back of his neck, to where the odd symbol sat on his neck. His fingers traced the eldritch symbol, even he still lost as to where it came from. But it was his mark, and he had made it so. Any who saw it did not connect it to his bandit clan, but to him directly. It was the mark of Cromir Galalo, a warlord among bandits. Now, he was simply waiting for supplies and to see how his new slave would react to her first proper order.