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Turn 18

---Turn 18---

"Death, taxes, and Goblins." Martha didn't reply, but something in her eyes looked like merriment. "And the tax doesn't always come to Tents." Storm shook his head, laughing silently.

"What did you do to him?"

Amos puffed out his shrunken chest proudly. "Tarred and feathered him, and tied him to his horse for the ride back to town, blindfolded." Storm shook his head again, still smiling.

"They'll send troops next time." Amos beamed again.

"They did the time before! We put all our valuables down the mine until they'd gone. The Factor talked their Commander into sending money for the Guard!"

Storm, Amos, and Martha howled with laughter. The adventurers looked askew at their usually taciturn companion. They had to wait for him to stop and wipe the tear from the corner of his eye before he could answer.

"This is frontier land. The taxmen don't come out here much and they aren't well liked - they're scared, a long way from home, and they don't get the respect they think they deserve. Most of them are honest enough, but they tend to get -"

"- Corrupted!" Amos glared at his audience.

"- Mean, 'cause the Emperor's money's not worth the trouble they go through to get it, but they aren't allowed to just give up and go home. When they get really pissed off, they send for the Army to rough the villagers up a bit. Sometimes villages get razed to the ground in the fighting. For the Army to actually give away money…" Storm grinned and hung his head, fighting to keep a straight face as Amos beamed a gummy grin at him.

---Skip across the room---

Darmon sat close to the fire, thinking about the goblins, and about the approaching nightfall. His new axe rested awkwardly against his leg - he hadn't yet found a comfortable way to carry it, nor had he gotten used to its heft and weight.

Intellectually he felt better for having it - even if it wasn't a hammer like Sigmar's - but it didn't feel like a part of him. He guessed that might be a problem. In all of the tales of heroes he had read, the hero's weapon was an extension of his will, his body; He had a long way to go before feeling that way about his new axe. Sitting by the fire listening to stories, as much as Darmon wanted to listen, wouldn't help him feel any more comfortable with the axe. Turning to Duncan, he leant over, putting his mouth against the stockier man's ear.

"I was thinking a bit of weapons practice might do me some good. I hope to make a better accounting of myself in the future than I have. I don't have a lot of training. I wonder if you would take some time to step out into the yard and show me a few things, maybe train with me a little? Perhaps we can convince Amos or some of the others to join us. I have a lot to learn."

Duncan smiled at Darmon, nodding slowly to him.

"I guess I could use some practice as well. Is that a new axe?" he said, leaning forwards to look at the man's new weapon. The initiate lifted the hand axe with one limp wrist, heaving it up to where the Labourer could grab it with one casually outstretched hand.

Duncan moved to his feet, and re-arranged his own axe so Darmon could get a look at it.

"I like my trusty old axe, it's gotten me out of some sticky situations, and its very reliable. Generally a well rounded weapon, and very handy to have around."

Turning to the rest of the Inn crowd and raising his voice above the hubbub, he called to attract their attention.

"Is anyone else up for a little practice? It's best we keep on our toes with the Goblins around..."

<anyone?>

Duncan began stretching his upper arm muscles as he awaited replies from the other people in the room. Loosening the muscles that had carried the keg of powder for so long, his face grimaced slightly, but he obviously felt better when he was finished. Catching Darmon's eye with his, he smiled, and slipped his axe from its loop on his belt.

"Ok, that's settled then. Lets go!"

Duncan lifted Darmon to his feet and the two disappeared back outside. Aenarion turned back to Amos. The Elf lent back in his chair. He had a sly grin on his face; The left corner of his mouth angled up a bit the way that a father might look at a child who had just attempted to tell a joke but mangled the punch line. He kept his cloak wrapped around him, and waited for the tales to continue. Amos looked uncomfortable and looked away at Storm. Storm was intently picking through the remains of his chicken and the old man was forced to turn back to Aenarion.

The Elf held his gaze for a moment more. Opening one hand gracefully, he asked: "So, has anyone here actually seen or heard evidence to suggest that the goblins have magicians? I haven't really heard much about this before, just rumour and innuendo from some drunks whose company I have enjoyed in the past."

Amos looked even more uncomfortable. Storm pulled a long string of white flesh off of the meat held firm in his other hand and dropped it into his mouth.

"What's your problem, fairy? Didn't you just hear us say that we don't know anything about those damn Goblins." There was a certain tenseness to the way he sat, sawing at the remains of his meal with his knife. "There could be a thousand braves up there, or there could be none. There could be a Goblin mage, there could be none, or there could be a whole cabal, their demons, apprentices, and half the hordes of Chaos with them! All we know for sure is that something was shooting arrows at us when we were on the walls last night, that something chased us the last stretch up to the walls, and that there's a smoking hole out there big enough to roast whole oxen. You can make your own guesses, same as us." He slipped and dragged the edge of his blade across his index finger. He swore, stabbed the knife point-first into the wooden bar top, and squeezed the bleeding cut closed with his right fist. "And you can pray you're wrong. Just like us." He stood up and headed out the front door before anyone could say anything.

---Skip to Xavier crossing back across the Town Square---

Rodger slowly walked through the deep snow, following the path past the Stores and towards the Inn. His mind wasn't walking that road through the snow: instead it walked through fields strewn with bodies and knee deep in blood, piss, and gore. In his mind he watched companions long dead and buried bleed slowly to death, screaming, screaming… Shaking his head violently, he snapped himself back to the present. Xavier stalked imperiously out of the noble-looking two-storey town house opposite, swishing his deep blue/black cloak theatrically. The Student was making a beeline for the heavyset stores and the Soldier veered of his path to follow him in.

The Stores were seemingly empty when Xavier strode in, letting the door catch Rodger painfully on the shin as it swung shut. Xavier drew himself up to his full height a full pace from the counter. Throwing his head back, he called 'Shop!' peremptorily. Magden wandered out from behind one of the high rear shelves. Waiting until the squat Halfling had reached the counter, Xavier stepped forward and rolled the parchment out on the counter. Pointing a long and elegant finger at the appropriate sentence, he ordered the storekeeper to hand over his goods.

"You'll find it's all in order. I'll take the items already requested and you can charge the Factor for your troubles."

The Halfling scratched the back of his head with one hand as he read the letter phrase by painful phrase. Exasperated, the student lent forward and dropped his voice a little.

"Tell me, do you consider the Factor to be commercially astute? Does he possess a talent for mercantile negotiation?" The Halfling looked up, his eyes narrowed in calculation.

"I reckon so, why?"

"Then you'd better make sure you charge him a reasonable price, then!" Xavier smiled broadly, scooped his purchases and the letter up off of the counter, turned, his cloak billowing, and walked out.

The Halfling and Soldier watched him go, slack yawed. Xavier out of sight, the two turned to look at each other incredulously. Magden snapped his jaw shut with a clack.

"What do you want?" He asked, suspiciously.

"Umm…" Rodger didn't seem sure.

"Well? I'm busy you know. I've not got time to waste on the likes of you, you know!"

Rodger shook his head violently. "I'm after winter -"

"Not another stupid plainsman! Didn't your mummy warn you it got cold in the mountains in winter?" Grumbling, the Halfling wandered off behind the wall of bins. A moment later his voice drifted back. "I've got woollen breeches, doublets, shirts, tunics, leggings, hose, vests, you name it. I can do you a complete set for…20 Crowns. Or 14 if you don't mind something that's a little tatty." The Halfling reappeared from behind the wall of bins, hairy feet well planted and his arms crossed. "Well?"

---End Turn---

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