A decision made, the group ask Kallana to guide them back to The Farmer's Son, to collect their belongings and their cart, to settle any outstanding accounts, and purchase any necessary provisions.

Their business concluded, they head out of the East Gate, and set out in pursuit of the villainous workmen.  The party make good time along the mostly deserted road, aided in no small part by the improving weather, and the exemplary behaviour of the oxen which, under Aarnr's gentle urging, almost gallop along the road.

THat is, if a gait that a walking man can still keep pace with, with little or no difficulty, could ever be called a gallop...

Shortly after noon they meet a wagon going in the opposite direction.  One man rides the wagon, which is laden with sacks and crates.  Three more men follow behind it, on horses.  Two of these wear mail shirts and carry spears, while the third is clad in clothing which looks to have cost a fair amount of coin.

En route, and happy to spend the day padding alongside the wagon (and occasionally jumping into it) in pursuit of the villains, Eilieen wakes herself up from her musings on iced treats and clean sheets to observe the travellers heading in their direction.  Her eyes brighten immediately, and she checks her clothing to ensure it is as clean as her fantasy sheets.

It is, thanks to a liberal use of prayers this morning.

"Good sirs!" she calls out as they approach.  "Have you passed another group upon this road?  Perhaps yesterday - men on foot, seeming in a hurry?"

Walking along with the others in silence, Arkan cannot help but be amused at Aarnr's encouragement of the oxen.

"You have a way with beasts my friend. You should consider taking up the honorable life of a hard working farmer some day." He says to Aarnr with as straight a face as he can manage. "Something to look forward too after a life of adventuring. It might sound boring but there is nothing like sowing some wild oats and watching them grow."

As they come come across other travelers coming down the road towards them, Arkan brings down his hood lower across his face, casting his features into shadow. He does not say anything yet, waiting for them to respond to Lady Eileen's hail, though his eyes peer curiously at the travelers.

Aarnr leaves off encouraging the oxen to look horrified at Arkan's suggestion.  "I will die in battle, amid the corpses of a legion of my foes," he assures the young man.  "Only thus will I be worthy to join the never-ending fight in the afterlife."

"You are all welcome to join me," he adds generously, remembering his grandmother's counsel.

The priest does not in any wise hide from the approaching travellers - indeed he eyes them with the suspicion he reserves for such chance encounters.  Guards but not, it seems, guardsmen.  Perhaps safeguarding the chattels of the shopkeep who accompanies them.

With any luck the discussion will not go well and the group will acquire another cart and a few horses ...

Erista rides in the wagon, out of consideration to her friends, who probably don't want to have to slow the oxen down from their nigh reckless gallop to avoid leaving her behind.  Hearing Eileen call out to some `good sirs' - clearly not a description of anyone here - she sinks down into the back, and pretends to be asleep.

"Hold, Roger!" calls out the well dressed man, and the driver brings the wagon to a halt.  The three riders move forward, and stop between the ox cart and the wagon.  Again the man speaks, his voice foppish and somewhat nasal, "I believe that we passed a party of eight ill-favoured ruffians on the road some three hours since.  Could they be the travellers of whom you speak?  They were clad in the raiment of common labourers, and were most loutish, not even returning my hail."

"Their leader seemed to not even be fully human, but appeared to carry the blood of some goblin, or its ilk, in his veins.  They spoke as they passed us by, and many of their words were in a tongue which almost seemed to befoul the very air around them, so vile and harsh was it."

A look of disgust comes over Arkan's face at the mention of the leader of the group of ruffians. Goblin blood, or perhaps something fouler still, he thinks, recalling the degenerates those sworn to orcus were rumored to debase themselves into.

Mentally shrugging away the unpleasant thoughts Arkan nods in appreciation at the well dressed man. "Your information was most useful, good sir."

Turning to his companions Arkan says to them, "Only three hours, we seem to have nearly caught up to them. I wonder why they slowed down though?"