<div class="floatright">(https://i.imgur.com/gICaxXK.jpg)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><span class="bbc_u"><strong>Torner, the Hanged Man</strong></span></span></div><br/>Torner raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Leigh. The big man stowed his greatsword, no longer seeing the need to have it at hand, and put his hands on his hips. So far as he could discern, the halfling was guilty of nothing more than being a reason to goldbrick for the son of a farmer who was overly superstitious and willing to think the worst of someone different than he was. His lips turned into a small frown, and then he let out a slow breath to relieve his exasperation with the whole situation.<br/><br/>"Well, miss," Torner said, his voice a ragged rasp with the edge of the grave, "you may commune somewhere else. You have frightened the owner of this field out of what simple wits he possesses, and there is precious daylight going to waste while farm chores go undone." The big man said, and moved to hoist the halfling up bodily. Surely someone so slight would be a weight he could easily lift. Torner's goal was to toss her over one shoulder like a sack of . . . something . . . and carry her away so that life on this simple farm could go back to being made up of a thousand chores and too little daylight to see them all done.