Aregano's purple hand rubs his chin for him as he ponders Lucian's statements.

He asks himself..."No further shame? Didn't he just finish insulting that dragon telling it that it was the stupidest of it's kind...?"

He shrugs, content that the spoils of "past crimes" should not be tossed due to present admonitions not to perpetrate such crimes. He then starts to fantasize about all the ways that he can prepare the dragon steaks he already harvested. His purple hand wipes the drool from his chin...multiple times.

The adventurers finish looting the cavern and desecrating the dragon's corpse, and begin making their way back to Spitwick and the tavern. The trek downhill is much faster than uphill, and the sun pummels the snow, quickly decaying it into snowmelt. As the adventurers noted in the Ice Warriors' cavern, the weather, once rid of its magical influence, is quite balmy and pleasant. The forest is filled with the elegant tickling of melted snow dripping to the ground and, as night approaches, there's almost a wistful attitude that overtakes the party, a specific feeling that it certainly was pleasant to spend the day outdoors in such pleasant weather.

Eventually, the party emerges onto the crest of the hill just outside The Giant's Slip, just as the sun dips below the horizon, casting everything in hazy purples and tender blues. The bustle and raucous feel of the tavern is gone: the stables, once over-flowing, are nearly empty, and mud tracks have been carved deep into the soil, swinging around the tavern's fencing and leading up the previously frozen slopes. Spitwick's caravan train has been pulled out of the stables, and a team of halflings are going about, checking the rigging and ropes, wiping the wagons and such down, either prepping for the next leg of their journey, or working on maintaining the caravan out of practice and habit.

Spitwick himself is perched atop the lead caravan, a wide-brimmed hat stooped low on his brow. A long pipe is tucked into his lips, and a thick stream of smoke snakes out of its bowl. He hears the crunch and squelch of snow and mud beneath the party's boots, and sits up straighter, waving hello. "Fellows! Well aren't you a pleasant sight for sore eyes! Weather seems to be perkin' up fine." He plucks the pipe from his mouth and uses it to point at Nolan. "Who's this fellow?"

"Me?" Nolan says. "Nolan Trueheart, sole survivor of a massacre, honorable priest of Avandra, aspiring paladin, defender of the realm and son of a noble house. And you, halfling, who are you?"

Spit surveys the silent adventurers and gives Nolan a surveyor's once-over. "I be Spitwick, caravan captain operatin' under the orders of these silent fellows' employer. What happened up on the mountain? Them dragonborn belched fire up the slopes, thawing the path. It's right muddy, but passable. Half the tavern's already emptied out and headed up the slopes, though I can say none of 'em were too happy about having to earn their wage 'stead of lollying about waitin' for warmer weather." He addresses the group, eyeing Lucian in particular. "I'm ready to be off at a moment's notice, though seein' the time I suppose we could rest here another night."

Where's the warm welcome for the dragon slayers? I think a refreshing drink is in order after an ordeal like that! Tovar eyes the tavern.

Spitwick grins at the return of Tovar's voice, and nimbly dismounts from the wagon, hopping off the seat, to the wagon wheel, and then landing with a squelch in the mud. "So you slayed a dragon! Impressive! Can't say I expected heroes of yer caliber to be hired by a 'umble pastry chef. C'mon then, let's grab us a tankard or two and celebrate." He begins marching toward the tavern, a certain pomp in his step. "BOYS!" he yells at the team. "UNHARNESS THESE BEASTS AND GIT YER WORTHLESS HALFLING HALFASSES INSIDE. TONIGHT, WE DRINK WITH DRAGON SLAYERS!" The halfling teamsters let out a cheer and begin quickly dismantling the caravan.

"HA! I cannot agree more. Good food and then sleep at a soft bed. Show me the way and fast!" Nolan tries to say full of confidence and bravado before the tiredness gets him, but ultimately failing to sound like he wanted. He doesn't sleep well for 2 days now.

Lucian walks slowly as the group make there way back inside the Giant's Slip. He has spoken barely a word since the group left the cavern a half-day earlier and only nods in acknowledgement when Spitwick addresses them upon their return to the Slip. Moving straight past the others as they drink and make merry he heads for the backrooms and a soft bed.

Aregano plops himself down on a chair, the chair groaning in protest, and immediately his purple hand starts waving for service.

"Ugh. I'm so glad we get to ride tomorrow..."

Where's my little friend Tovar shouts as he lowers himself into a chair. A round of drinks for the dragon slayers!

While he continues to talk loudly, he also glances around the room, to see if anything stands out as unusual.

Lucian disappears upstairs to the party's room, while Spitwick, Aregano, Libi, Flint, and Tovar sit around a circular table. The kobold wench whisks into the room, plunking a round of froth-topped tankards onto the table and smiling at the hero Tovar.

The scene in the tavern is as mute as the party. It seems as though everyone's spirits are down. The orcs near the knife-throwing table eye the adventurers moodily.

"So, er, tell me all about it," Spitwick says. "Killin' a dragon an' all must be right innerestin'. What was causin' the winter storms?"

Tovar takes a deep pull from his drink.
Well, little guy, it was rather fearsome. But, for a band such as ours, it was pretty easy. He pauses to take another drink. It's almost a shame, the poor beast was trapped, but somehow managed to break free as we were killing the goblins. By the time it was free, I'll reckon it was ready to kill anyone around. He takes another pause to drink and eye up his audience. By that time, it was us or him, and I know what option I wanted to take!

He looks towards the bar. Hey, my little friend over there! I am dangerously close to seeing the bottom of my drink. Bring us another round!

He looks back towards Spitwick. I'm no master of the arcane, but, I'll guess it was something related to the dragon. Once it's head was separated from the rest of it, things started getting warmer.

Nolan, all this time, was just listening the others speak while he unscrupulously throws large amounts of food inside his mouth, forgetting his manners at the table. He plans to join Lucian upstairs as soon as he feel full. The tiredness is getting him very fast.

Aregano listens with a grin to the recounting of the glorious carving of the winged beast. His mouth starting to water at the feast waiting in his pouch.

Suddenly, he realizes there's no reason to wait, and he blurts out "Who else wants a bite of dragon steak?!"

The orcs by the knife-throwing game, as well as the ones on the opposite side of the tavern, raise their hands. As does the barkeep and the kobold wench, after she drops off another round of drinks. The generally dismal mood begins to lighten at the prospect of free, rare food. The barkeep disappears into the back and reappears with the tavern's chef, a round, middle-aged human, wiping her hands off on her apron.

"Gurt here tells me you got a few flanks o' dragon needin' servin'. Maybe we can cut a deal with rooms and drink. I'll serve up the steaks, keep what's leftover, and you fellows can rest easy without shelling out coin for a room, these and another round of drinks, and dinner. Sound alright?"

Aregano's eyes light up, and his purple hand pulls the meat from the pouch and carries it across the room to hand to Gurt.

"That'd be perfect, my good man. There's also some goblin meat in there if you could fix that up as well. I would suggest a light grilling for the goblin. For the dragon, possibly a little brining. Not sure if dragon will brine will or not. Also, it was a white dragon, so something hot to go with the cold...chili peppers maybe?"

He appears to be continuing his fantasies of what it will all taste like as his eyes go staring off in to the ether.

Tovar drains another drink. Tonight, we feast! He leans in towards Aregano. I bet no one here has ever even seen a dragon before, let along ate one. Maybe while we feast, we can see about getting a bit more information from someone. Then, in a louder voice Where's my little friend? I'm about to dry up over here. Dragon meat needs more drink with it than other meat!

The exertion of the day coupled with the impending feast has clouded Aregano's mind...

"Mmm hmm, yeah, that sounds delicious."

The inn bursts into revelry when the steaks come, and the kobold wench places a steaming heap of white (dragon) meat in front of the adventurers. There's general partying and imbibing within the group, and there seems to be the implication of narrowly-avoided violence, as the orcs lament their days of getting paid to loaf around will be missed, but acknowledging that the arrested commerce between Talcar and the mountains would have eventually made all of the laborers suffer. By the end of the meal, the orcs, gurt, and the rest of the festive members of the inn are happy, tipsy, and ready for a long night's slumber.