Location: A barn in the village of Clun<br/>Date / Time: March 15, late afternoon<br/>Tagging: Eztli<br/><hr/><br/>When Alan, master goldsmith, had died late in 737 he had left a large hole in the craftmen's community of Scarborough – and in the business inherited by his two sons, Alain and Alric. The two younger smiths were more than capable of handling the crafting of fine gold- and silverware, of jewelry, cups, plates, and other small, valuable objects. That was their trade and they had learned it well from a young age. But Alan, even at well past 60 years of age, had always taken it upon himself to travel to the summer fairs and markets of the Frontier Baronies in person, selling not just the wares of his own house, but also sold some wares for other traders and craftsmen of Scarborough for a small commission.<br/><br/>Not that there was all that much trade to be had in the Baronies, but neither was their much competition for a silversmith willing to travel and selling good, solid quality, as Alan had. The income had been valued by the family, and neither Alain nor Alric wanted to lose it. And so they had both set out in the early days of March 738, weeks before more regular commerce with the Frontier Baronies resumed for another year, Alric taking the southern roads towards Brin, Alain traveling to Kirborg and Helmburg, both with a sample of their wares, to make certain everyone knew they were still in business and happy to take orders for goods to be delivered during the year's fairs and markets, come spring and summer.<br/><br/>Alain's party consisted of himself, a broad-shouldered man like his father, with large hands that had not lent themselves naturally to the silversmith's trade but had picked up the craft with long practice, mounted on a dark gray horse and clearly not used to the saddle. A boy of about 14 accompanied him, one of his junior apprentices brought along to take care of the horses and wait on the master craftsman, and while not privileged to ride, the boy was clearly enjoying the journey more than his master, eager to stretch his legs after the winter months. Two men of the household led the pack pony that carried food and traveling gear for the party, both big, sturdy fellows, each armed with a large cudgel.<br/><br/>For some extra protection, Alain had brought along one of the guards who had often traveled with his father, a dwarf by the name of Krolus, a fellow who cut the figure of an experienced fighter very well, armored in scale mail, and armed with two axes and a heavy crossbow. Silver streaks in his red hair and beard told of his age, but so did his constant grumbling about the cool, wet weather being poison for his joints. Everyone was glad when the dwarf gave up most of complaining on the third day on the road, having found no one among the humans who would offer much sympathy or an open ear for his complaints.<br/><br/>In addition Alain had also hired an elf he did not know in person, but who had come recommended by one of the merchants of Scarborough. Between them the group had enough brawn and experience that Alan considered them relatively safe on the road.<br/><br/>Of course he had reconsidered when they had heard the first wolves howling on the evening of the second day, and again when they had passed the ruins of a farmhouse on the third day, overgrown and not much more than a crumbling wall and some wooden pillars standing as testament to some failed settlement. The dwarf's assurances that there was nothing to worry about, that ruins only spoke of danger long past, did little to lift Alain's mood, but perhaps that had to be blamed on the weather and his sore ass, the goldsmith not being used to the saddle and the muddy roads and frequent rain making journey and riding even less enjoyable for him. But what had to be done had to be done. Business called, and Alain of Scarborough was too stubborn a man  to turn back halfway during the journey. Mud and rain would not turn him back with his tail between his legs.<br/><br/>During the summer it would have taken a party not hampered by heavy loads and carts no more than three days to reach the barony of Kirborg, but trudging through mud and resting not when they could no longer go on, but rather when a decent place for a camp presented itself, they had taken five days to reach the village of Clun, which stood close to the southern border of Kirborg lands.<br/><br/>Clun was a hamlet of perhaps a hundred adult souls, simple houses at the base of a line of hills, the hillsides above the settlement pockmarked by hollows where clay had been dug up for the brickmaking that was the main business of Clun, if business a strictly local operation could be called. Alain was taking his supper with the village headman, while his company had found a place to rest – and dry after a day of light but constant rain – in a large barn. They had to share the place with a few cows, but while the beasts didn't help the smell of the barn, they did give off some warmth.<br/><br/>The young apprentice had curled up in the hayloft as soon as he had taken care of the horse and pony, having caught a cold along the way. Now it was just the older men stretching their legs, Krolus the dwarf passing around a bottle of sloe gin he had scrounged up somewhere in the hamlet, a local produce of Kirborg as he had informed his traveling companions. "Three hours and a half I figure, before we reach Kirborg proper tomorrow. We'll be eating and sleeping in a decent inn tomorrow, boys. If we can get through the ford, that is. Never been here so early in the year. No idea how high the Thane will be in March. But wet boots we'll all get, that's for sure." Even with that prospect looming on the horizon, the dwarf seemed to be in a good mood, the journey turning out easy money for the guards.