"<strong>It'll beat taking watch and collecting firewood, I'm for it</strong>" Sampson quipped as he heard the general agreement to rest at the inn, a proposition Sampson agreed with; as the day grew longer, the need to find a place to stay for the night was moving to the forefront of the Mercenary's concerns, and the guaranteed prospect of a dry bed and warm meal was definitely preferable to field rations and grimy soil.<br/><br/>As the wagon neared the inn Sampson started to undo his combat attire, finding little need to keep it on when they'd be safely behind stone walls in a few minutes. Pulling off his leather gloves, Sampson revealed his hands were large, rough and calloused, the tan skin hardened and coarse from many hours of training. Flexing his hands as he let them breath, Sampson drove the wagon to where the rest of the party was congregating before stopping the vehicle, sliding out of the driver's seat, and giving out a throaty groan as he stretched his back, "<strong>here's to hoping they have a bathhouse</strong>" Sampson said breathily as he finished his stretching, "<strong>still got some of that blasted Ogre's grime on me, and I'd rather not sleep in it.</strong>"