---Turn 20b---

---Rodger and Aenarion in the Stores---

The Halfling watched him put them on with just the correct amount of concern. Yes, thought the Elf, a decent sort, for a Halfling. Pausing with one shoe on and one shoe off, Aenarion looked up at the storekeeper. "So, you must know just about everybody in this settlement. If someone might need some, say, information or 'services', who would he talk to?"

Magden looked away for a moment, his lips moving. "It depends on what this person is looking for, mi'lud. If… this person… were looking for… company… then there are a few… ladies… I might be able to introduce them to. There's no particular place in town for such a rendezvous, so the best I could suggest to your… friend… is that he might meet one of other of these ladies in the inn… or in his room." The two made eye contact, Magden looking for some reaction and Aenarion as impassive as ever. "Money might have to change hands first, of course, to prevent any… unpleasantness." Their eyes met again. There was still no clue as to what the Elf was after. "If your friend were after… certain substances then it may be that I could provide them. I have a small supply for… favoured customers. My personal store will have to last a long winter and so the price will, unfortunately, be higher than the gentleman might…" He trailed off, confused by Aenarion's lack of response.

"Well, my good Hob, you have been a great help." Aenarion looked at himself, decked out in his new clothes. He realised with a sigh that he wasn't going to win any fashion awards. Thinking philosophically, he remembered the words of a grizzled grey-bearded Dwarf he had once been unfortunate enough to have to listen too: it was better to be warm and ugly than pretty and dead. Like all Elves, Aenarion knew the dirt-shovelling Stunties to be a lower form of life but during his long life he had come to realise that they actually knew what they were doing sometimes - a form of low animal cunning perhaps. "And I do believe that you mistook my earlier comment. I'm sure none of the human wenches would be to my liking. No, I was thinking something more along the lines of, shall we say, an 'alternate market.' You know, a place where a worldly-wise traveller could find some, 'tools' to aid him in his work." With a twist of his wrist, Aenarion nonchalantly made a gold coin appear between his fingers and tossed it onto the counter in front of the Halfling. The Halfling's face cleared and he smiled broadly.

"Ah Sir! If' you'd only spoken sooner! This is only a small town - unfortunately - and we have but a few… tradesmen. What were you looking for exactly? Pharmacist's powders? Recreational potions? Witches' charms? Books?"

< Aenarion? >

"So, friend, how much do I owe you for the clothes?" The Halfling looked at the Elf and smiled his best apologetic smile.

"I am sorry sir, but I couldn't let those items go for less than eighteen crowns." Aenarion covered his pretty mouth with one long-fingered hand, unsuccessfully covering a laugh.

"Ah, yes, the little folk always were incredibly funny. Really, how much?" Magden shrugged - his face suggesting just how far the Elf was from the world he knew.

"These things are hard to come by here, milord. We are a long way from the centres of commerce and no trade routes pass through here. Everything that does come here must travel on mule-back for many miles and there are matters such as the beast's fodder…" He smiled regretfully and spread his hands, palms up. Aenarion dismissed him with an imperceptible shake of his head.

"So then, let's get down to it. How about thirteen crowns, ten?" Magden smiled again.

"I'm sorry milord…"

"For these? By the gods, man, I think I'm the eighth fellow to wear this shirt. Granted, the boots are more than suitable, so I'll add in a little more for those. How about fifteen and six?"

The two haggled on, the watching Soldier ignoring the sometimes-heated discussion going on beside him. At one point, the diminutive Halfling threatened to throw the armed Elf out. Eventually the two agreed a price and shook on it, the Halfling fighting the urge to gloat, the Elf as impassive as his race could be. Another eighteen golden coins were reluctantly slid onto the counter to lie besides their cousin.

The Halfling bent over to gather his trove as the Elf paused to dress. His face blank, Aenarion left the squat building for the Inn, for its comforts and kitchen, and to see what the others had done with their morning's respite.

 

---Junither et al. inside the Inn---

Still chuckling, Duncan patted Darmon on the shoulder and swivelled back to look at Carlsen and those promised drinks. The other man was lowering his thimble of brandy from his lips, fighting to keep the tears back. "Ugh…good…stuff…" Grinning, he tossed the other half of the measure back and burst out coughing. Duncan grinned at him and at the apprehensive noviate, paused for effect, then tossed his back in one go. Carlsen laughed, clapped the labourer on the knee and toasted him with the empty glass. Duncan coughed once, his cheeks slightly flushed.

Darmon hunched over on his stool, supporting much of his weight on his elbows where they rested on the wooden counter. Martha had tossed a simple pin down in front of him. The iron was still warm and blackened from the candle she had passed it through. Stoically the boy lanced the blister on his palm and wiped the resulting ichor off on the sleeve of his robes. Various twinges in his body told him that he would hurt in the morning for all that exercise if he didn't stretch now. He didn't have the energy to move. He poked at his stew, trying to eat as much of it as he could before it grew cold and congealed. Still staring at the trencher, he listened to the two experienced fighting men talk beside him. He was fascinated by the easy way they bantered with each other and tried to commit the bulk of their conversation to memory so he could write it down later, before sleeping.

Duncan fumbled with his brandy glass as it rested on the counter-top. Sniffing once and wiping at his nose with the back of his hand, Duncan glanced around again before turning back to look at Carlsen.

"Thanks for the drink, friend." he said with a wide smile, still fumbling with the empty glass as he spoke. "It's just what I needed after all of that practise." He gave Darmon a fleeting glance: The boy had his face just inches above a steaming plate of stew and he was shovelling as fast as his half-numb hands could manage. The smell made Duncan's stomach ache.

"Maybe I can return the favour to you some time," Duncan said, folding his arms and resting them on the counter. "So what brings you to this strange little town?"

<Reply-Carlsen>

"Oh really?" Duncan replied, nodding slowly as the man continued speaking. "So do you have a profession at all?"

<Reply-Carlsen>

 

---End Turn---