Aregano trots along with the others, a comfortable grin on his face, only very occasionally interrupted by a brief period of concentration as he renews the magical warming of his boots, undergarments, and shirt. Actually, he's almost too warm. The chill wind is a nice opposition to the warmth of his clothing. It feels refreshing on his ample cheeks, and leaves them pleasantly rosy.

Every few minutes he steps into nothing and steps out again ahead of the group. He walks more leisurely than the rest, but his constant leap frogging keeps him at about the same pace overall. Occasionally, he'll call up his purple hand to pluck a plant or stone off the ground and bring it up for him to inspect. Some of the plants become a quick snack as he squeals in delight just before the hand pops them in his open maw.

Libi walks up to Flint and gives him an appraising look. "You came, and you brought a friend. Who is this elder?"

~SE++

Tovar cinches his cloak around him to ward off the bitter cold. He trails a few steps behind the rest of the group during their travel. Lost in thought, his hand travels up to where his left ear used to be. He catches himself and instead pushes his hair back, underneath his dark hat. So distracted, he does not even notice Flint until the rest of the team has stopped to talk to him. While they start talking, he rubs his eyes and promises himself to keep paying more attention.

Flint nods at the heroes, his gaze lingering on Libi, his smile slackening into something more serious. He takes a step toward her, but before he can speak, the grizzled halfling answers for himself.

"My name is Spitwick," he says, with the growl of a veteran pipe smoker. A bit of phlegm burbles up his throat, and he hacks it into the fire. "Damn this cold," he mutters. In a stronger voice, he continues. "I'll be the caravan leader, on behalf of Master Croi. Flint tol' me all about you four--glad to have you along. We're getting ready to head out, should only be a few minutes longer. You'll pardon the formality of it all, but may I see your papers? Arvoreen knows there's enough ire among the nobles to hire dopplegangers to slaughter us all." His grin is only half serious.

Flint nods to the group, and approaches Libi, whispering something delicately that is shredded by the wind before others can hear.

Libi whispers back to Flint, a look of sadness crosses his face and a dark smile crosses hers. She takes the two daggers out of her boots and slides them into his belt-loops with practiced ease, stands up and turns back to Spitwick. "I wasn't told you'd be needing papers, Old One. I can assure you, my interests are not in ending your lives."

~SE++

At Spitwick's request Lucian produces the neatly folded paperwork from the day before and presents them to the halfling. "Seems something of an unneeded precaution for simple caravan work. Are you expecting much trouble?" He looks over the caravan for a moment his gaze settling on the massive reinforced crates. "Also if you don't mind my asking what are they for? Exactly how much of this 'secret ingredient' do you intend to transport?"

"Oh, those papers."

~SE++

Flint joins Spitwick by the fire, rubbing his hands and glancing between the group and the caravan leader. Spitwick reviews the papers passively while answering Lucian's question, "Contracts is just how business is done in Talcar. Might be one day a lord asks you to do something, and you do it, and he don't pay you anything because you ain't got a contract. Happens to halflings all the time. Think of it as a courtesy from Croi--he ain't planning on denyin' you payment, an' he wrote about the same contract for me 'n my team. Here." He passes the papers back to Garren, and turns his gaze onto the caravan. "As for trouble--'course we're expectin' trouble. Croi hired you merks, didn't he? Last two caravans were ambushed, and not a soul returned. My instructions is to head west and up the mountain, to--" He pulls out a roll of parchment, and squints at it, "--Boulder Farm. Manifest says we're supposed to get two 'cows.' I'm guessing the crates are for 'em, though I ain't never seen no need for a cell for a heifer." He rolls the parchment back up and slides it into his coat. "Looks like the team's about ready to head out. I suggest you fellows find a seat. Some of the afternoon shift's snoozing in the crates if you want to bed up and get out this blasted freeze. Otherwise, the last pavilion wagon's all yours." He lurches forward, waving his hands and yelling at a younger halfling, who is struggling with maintaining his balance on a stool while harnessing one of the horses.

The sun is beginning its slow bowl over the sky, and the city is beginning to stir. The Western gates, partly shut to narrow the immigrant and emigrant traffic of the early morning, slowly begin to open, the hum of their gears vibrating the street.

Deep in thought, Tovar only somewhat pays attention as Spitwick speaks. When the pavilion is mentioned, it all seems to sink in. Wordlessly, he walks over to the wagon, and looks around. He inspects both the inside and outside of the wagon, checking for any broken parts or areas that appear to be worn down.



Once he has completed his outside inspection, he enters the pavilion to see what's inside.

Inside the pavilion wagon, it looks like a large, flatbed wagon, with a row of benches lining either side, and two stacks of cots at the very back. There's a single stove in the center of the wagon, with a round pipe leading up and out the ceiling. Beneath the benches are six steamer trunks, and further inspection shows they're filled with rations and coal for the stove. There's an interior flap that can close the tent, as well as stitched windows that can be pulled open immediately with the drawing of a string, should any of the adventurers wish to peer out. Inspection of the halfling pavilion wagon shows something similar, but more cramped and of a smaller scale. They all feel akin to the barracks on a whaler--less for comfort and more for efficiently designating sleeping space. Several halflings are already snoozing in the pavilion wagons, on the cots, benches, and around their stove.

The two wagons with the crates look brand-new. Shiny, coppery gears, gleaming wooden spokes, and the faint whiff of sawdust and freshly cut wood. The edges of the crates are fuzzed with splinters. The crates open by way of a hatch facing the back of the wagon that drops to the ground, almost like a ramp. Its hinges shine like fish scales, new and unused. There is nothing inside the crates, save for some halfling bedding and a snoozing teamster or two.

"...cows huh? Fair enough I guess we'll see when we arrive at this farm." Lucian bows slightly and makes his way towards the pavillion wagon, stopping when he notices Tovar performing an inspection. "See anything of interest? Perhaps you are expecting an assassin to be clinging to bottom of the wagon?" He chuckles as he hops up into the wagon, taking a spot on the bench nearest the stove.

The heroes climb into the wagon, following Lucian's lead and gathering around the stove. Flint joins the group, sitting beside Libi, and occasionally fetching nuggets of coal from the trunks and feeding them to the stove. There is little to report in the first few hours of the journey, save for the way the wind bangs against the pavilion flaps, rocking the wagon back and forth and stirring up a symphony of gear creaks and wood cracking and spokes complaining. By the time it's lunch, however, the group has fled the wrath of the storm, and an eerie calm settles onto the troupe, disturbed only by the clomping of hooves, wheels turning, and halfling chatter. A peek outside the wagon reveals a landscape swathed in white, so perfectly unblemished and scintillating in the afternoon sun it is painful to let your gaze linger on the snowy banks. Absent the wind, the temperature seems bearable, pleasant even, for a winter freeze.

The caravan stops for a brief repast, then continues on.

The sun has dipped well below the horizon when the caravan finally stops. The group hears the sound of chatter swell, and the wheedling of a fiddle accompanied by someone else hammering on a piano. Peeking out the window, you see a sturdy, ranch-sized in, three-stories in height and lit like a honey-doped pixie celebrating summer's solstice. The inn is tucked into the mountain slope as if embedded. A sign hangs over the inn's door, depicting what looks like a frowning, male giant in a tiny, white dress. Beneath the picture, the sign reads: The Giant Slip.

Spitwick has pulled his wagon to the side of the inn, near the stables, and is being helped down by a burly, female half-orc. They exchange words like old friends, and after he palms her what looks like a gold coin, she begins, with the scrambling help of Spitwick's halfling team, unhitching the horses and guiding them to the stable. Spitwick trundles over to the heroes and announces, "We're staying at the Slip tonight. Looks like the roads up ahead are iced over. Feels like the temp's risin', so here's to hopin' it melts come morning. Get yer gear and come on."

Aregano's purple hand replaces the book it was holding for him to read back in his satchel. Then he rolls off the bench he was lying on into nothing and steps back out again on the ground outside the wagon. Thus completely avoiding the need to heave his girth up off the bench, or even to struggle with his bulk when getting out of the wagon.

He takes a deep breath of the chilled air and grins as he walks toward the inn.

Tovar nods at Spitwick and walks over towards the inn. As he reaches alongside of Aregano he pauses and looks at him. "Why purple" is all he says as he looks at the hand.

Aregano glances over at Tovar. The eladrin's purple hued opalescent eyes peaking out of his portly face. His face cracks into a grin.

"It reminds me of grapes. They're delicious."

He pauses for a moment. Then queries back...

"Why a Greatsword?"

The purple hand pointing at Tovar's weapon.

Libi hops down from the wagon and heads inside without a word, her charcoal grey clothing flapping behind her. Heading inside, she looks around and assesses all of the threats she can see.



~SE++

The inside of The Giant's Slip is bustling with activity. One of the halfling teamsters is already chasing a robustly-bearded, dwarven lady up the wooden steps just off the entryway, disappearing onto the second floor. Rows of booths align the walls, many of them filled with travelers prepped for the frost--dwarves in fur-lined cloaks, pick-axes strapped to their belts; halfling teamsters like your companions idly chatting to their friends, doodling shapes onto tables with their fingertips and puddles of spilled ale; tall, willowy elves silently sipping from goblets of wine, leafing through books as they lounge near the inn's roaring fireplace; half-orcs laughing loudly and clapping each others' backs as they toss throwing knives at a circular, corked board; humans and half-elves bundled against the cold, chatting over legs of mutton and buttered biscuits; and a group of scowling dragonborn, their scales fiery as a sunset, are bent over their pints of firewater.

A bar stretched across the wall furthest from the door, and a muscular, human barkeep worries a mug with a rag. He nods to you politely as you enter, and gestures to one of several tables open on the dining room floor. There's an exit behind the bar, presumably leading to the storeroom and stables, and windows line the walls, their curtains drawn to deter what cold comes creeping in.

Upon hearing Spitwick's announcement Lucian sighs softly before pulling his pack onto his shoulders and exiting the wagon. He stands silent for a few moments watching his companions rush towards the Giant and the halflings scurry about their business before making his way towards the entrance, only to stop short and shift direction to the left of the door. Lowering his bag onto the frozen ground he leans against the wall and reflexively produces his still empty tobacco pouch.He sighs once again and allows himself to slide down the wall until seated. Taking a moment to rummage though his gear he produces an small warn lute from his belongings and begins absent-mindedly strumming a few notes to himself while watching the night roll by.

Aregano drifts toward an open table and plops his bulk down in one of the chairs, his purple hand gone for the moment. He breaks out a book from his satchel and starts reading, intermittently raising his head for a moment to greedily inhale the scent of mutton and biscuits.

Spitwick joins Aregano at the table, and in short order a dewy-eyed, kobold wench drops off mugs of ale and a freshly baked loaf of bread. Spitwick hands her a few silver. The pianist and the fiddler, tucked in a corner by the bar, begin another bawdy tune. "We'll be up by dawn, and head out shortly after breakfast," Spitwick explains, but he's cut short by a half orc peering out the window. "SNOW AGAIN!" he bellows, and the inn crowd responds with a cheer--save for the elves by the fire, and the dragonborn huddled around their drinks--one of whom pounds his fist onto the table, disgusted. His companions watch him stand up and stride over to your table, looming over it, "Pardon my intrusion, but may I sit here? I have a small matter to discuss." A halfling teamster--from another group--lifts his pint and hollers, "Here's to 6 days of snow and counting!" Someone from across the room--possibly a dwarf--replies, "Here's to day rates!" The crowd cheers. As one of the patrons twitches aside a window curtain, you glimpse a sudden torrent of snow hurling itself onto the grounds outside, the hollers of Spitwick's teamsters muffled as they try to hustle the horses into the stables and the caravans beneath the shelter of an open-walled barn.