"This is where yer off."
The red-headed hedge knight shouldered past the captain without a word, hobnail boots ringing against the planks of the dock as he sullenly dropped a small leather pouch into the older man's hands amid a jingle of coins. The Captain of The Maiden's Fury gave a short nod, and then turned back to his crew to begin barking orders once again. He had been a friend of Sir David, and it was this good will that should have gotten Terryn and the rest of his Hedge Brothers at least as far as the Lowlands, where some good might have been found either in the raiding of villages or the hiring out as protectors against just such raids. But that good will the captain had held for his band had dried up with the old knight's death and the subsequent loss of any sense of honor among the Hedge Brothers. Things had really taken a turn for the worse when Borris the Lout stabbed a cabin boy over a dispute about boots. Sir Terryn was still not entirely certain he regretted his inability to prevent Borris' subsequent execution -- the man's title had been well-earned.
Regardless of the justice, or lack thereof, to be found in Borris' actions, the Thornbred Knights now found themselves in the village of Polca. Destitute, without a single iota of knowledge regarding of the current political climate (it was only known that some sort of siege was taking place to the West, though Sir David had expressed an interest in keeping his men uninvolved), the Terryn idly mused that perhaps the Thornbred Knights would be best served renaming themselves the Stale-Bread Knights. That was certainly all they'd be eating for some time. The young man sighed, his hand idly resting on the pommel of his longsword, his thumb sliding up and down at the spot where a jewel had once been, and solemnly marched away from the sea.
"Ian, you and Oswald go ahead and scout out an area just outside the village limits to set up camp," he ordered as he walked, hardly glancing back to ensure that it had been received. He may have been young, but it was clear from the outset that he was the chosen successor to Sir David, and those men who had decided to remain Brothers were willing to follow him for now. He swallowed another sigh, the bitter resignation to a doomed outlook tinged with the salt of the air. "Bjorn, you go on with them. See what information can be gathered about the local affairs."
While that was being done, Terryn was going to seek out the tavern and buy himself a drink and a bed warmer with the last of his personal funds. Something told him it might be the last bit of comfort he'd see in a while.
Secure a camp just outside the village limits. Send a man into the village to gather information on the local political climate. Terryn heads to the local tavern/inn to eavesdrop on conversation as well as partake in the pleasures of this port.
Also, begin training at the art of...charisma? Pulchritude? Schmoozing? Whatever you want to call it.