As Kressle explained herself and the history of the Stag Lord, Silas found himself looking to sit at one of the nearby logs, placing a hand on his knee as he got comfortable listening to Kressle speak. The story of this Stag Lord was one he's observed a few times before with gangs he ran with, although not at this scale: a bunch of miscreants start working together before one begins to show their strength, or an innate ability to lead, or even proves their dominance by doing something particularly daring. The Stag Lord was dangerous since he had all three; charisma, strength, skill at arms... Silas found himself thinking he would've probably joined the man if he heard about him before the Lord of Brevoy sent out his decree,<em><strong>and what kind of man would I be then? Dead, most likely.</strong></em>Like all bandit leaders however he seemed to become trapped in the luxuries of his position, alcohol apparently being his particular weakness, "<strong>alcohol?</strong>" Silas repeated, reaching back to bring up his backpack so he could take out one of the amber bottles, "<strong>So you're saying these are going straight to the Stag Lord.</strong>"<br/><br/><em><strong>Straight to the Stag Lord... And when they get to him, he'll drain their contents without a second thought.</strong></em><br/><br/>Holding one of the whiskey bottles in both hands, Silas fingered the glass as he flipped it over occasionally, the wheels in his particularly vile head clearly turning,<em><strong>all we need to do is confirm we have their obedience. We could let them go back to their unloved lord with whiskey in tow... Only there'll be more than just whiskey in the bottles. Gods dammit, of all the times to not have some poison on hand...</strong></em>