The Market

SPACE Soon, Alliandra and Grant emerge from the stone building, smiles stretching across their faces.
SPACE “How did we do?” Alasdair asks eagerly.
SPACE “Well, my friend,” Alliandra replies, patting him on the back. “Quite well.”
SPACE “It seems our new friend Meggana is somewhat trustworthy,” Grant adds, spitting some tobacco from his mouth.
SPACE “We have a little over 100 gold coins to spend, minus food for later and the rooms.”
SPACE The group seems somewhat pleased, though Cyrdan is a bit pessimistic.
SPACE “We’ll have to be hard bargainers to get much with 100 coins,” he says. "Damn that Cain! I had plenty of wealth for all of us before the stunt he pulled last night."
SPACE "Nothing we can do about that right now," Alliandra reasons.
SPACE “I say we go next door and get outfitted a bit more appropriately,” Alasdair pipes up. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I sure am tired of these rags we’ve been shouldering.”

SPACE The group agrees and enters the tailor’s shop one by one, getting outfitted in some of the cheaper, albeit newer, clothing from the shelves inside. The tailor, an elderly man, makes a comment on the barbarian’s somewhat unusual size.
SPACE “I’ll have to make yours special,” he croaks, shaking a finger at them from under his tiny spectacles. He takes the tape measure from around his neck and begins sizing up the two men.
SPACE Feeling a bit flustered by the old man’s intimate proximity to the barbarians, Conner steps back and away from the old man.
SPACE “It’s okay,” Alasdair reasons with him. “He just has to measure you so he knows how big to make your clothes.”
SPACE “Like clothes,” Conner says, pawing at the shirt he is already wearing. The old man shrugs and Alasdair rolls his eyes at the blonde-headed warrior. Tape measure outstretched, the old man turns toward Tharg who put his hands up in protest.
SPACE The old man shakes his head violently. "Suit yourself then!"

SPACE Once outfitted, the group exits the tailor and looks around the street. Across from the tailor's shop is a breezeway where the clanging originated, although it has since stopped. Further down the road to their left, a storefront, stacked roof to ground in wooden wheels, is getting some business from a middle-aged man in bibbed trousers. The man removes a smoking pipe from his mouth and waves to a man in the shop next door to him.

SPACE That shop, as far as can be seen, has garments hanging in its window. Another tailor's maybe?

SPACE Just then, a galloping horse passes the street. It carries a soldier of some sort. He wears a surcoat of periwinkle-blue and a brass helm with dark blue plumage. He seems to have been in a hurry, for he is gone as quickly as he came.
SPACE As Cyrdan begins explaining that the nearby city of Portsmouth sent a small detachment of soldiers to protect and investigate the rumors of the hobyah's growing strength, a small group of four similarly-clad soldiers, on foot this time, runs in pursuit of the horseman.
SPACE "Odd," Cyrdan comments absently.

SPACE "Hungry again," Garn says, staring longingly in the window of the bakery behind them.
SPACE "Good idea," Alliandra says, handing Garn 3 coins from the small sack in her robe. "Get us all something, will you?"
SPACE Garn readily agrees and takes off for the bakery.

SPACE Investigating the former clanging sounds, the group (minus Garn) decides to enter the stone breezeway. The doors to the place are swung open like enormous barn doors, one by a bald man with black handlebar moustache in a leather apron, and, the other, by Meggana. Beyond her, the breezeway seems to something of a smithy. A forge is alight at the rear of the structure and piles of broken and bent blades are cluttered about the straw-covered floor.
SPACE Meggana greets the group with a smile.
SPACE "Well," she says, "how did we fare with Old Man Withersby?"
SPACE "Not too bad," Alliandra replies. "We owe you thanks for your influence."
SPACE The elven woman seems humbled. "No thanks is necessary. I'm just glad to help out."
SPACE The group stands uncomfortably for a moment before Meggana introduces her large muscled blacksmith friend.
SPACE "I'm sorry; where are my manners?" she asks apologetically. "This is Osward, best bladesmith in Nuatuc."
SPACE The large man nearly blushes at the proclamation. He smoothes his moustache and then wipes his soot covered arms on his apron before shaking Cyrdan's hand. "I am a humble servant of the forge," he dictates.
SPACE "Just the man we want to see, then," Cyrdan says eloquently. "These fine adventurers are in need of blades suitable to their skills."
SPACE "Ah, then you have come to the right place!" Osward replies with his hands on his hips.
SPACE "Treat them well, Oz," Meggana says on her way out the door. "I'll see you all back at 'The Tusk.' I have other rounds to make." With that, Meggana exits the breezeway that serves as a smithy.