The whistled tune suddenly stops as the man and his horse are intercepted by a beggar, sheepish smile on his face. As with most beggars, it is unkempt, dressed in rags, malodourous to the point that Wojda's excrement smells like rosewater in comparison and with a feigned disability. An amputated right leg combined with a crutch this time. He even has a hat with a wide brim to obscure his lying eyes. It would certainly fool some naive bleeding heart with a coin purse heavier than the contents of his or her skull. "Alms for the poor, m'lord? May gods bless you." It speaks. At least it's not feigning muteness as well. But a lord? What manner of fool would mistake an easterling like Strogobor for a lord? Is it the horse? One would think that scum would remember that there is no lord in this town as tall as a tree or that there is a mercenary of great stature that has no fondness for the lowest echelon of criminals, such as beggars. Of their kind, only the children could evoke sympathy in him and only in the sense that he would teach them how to be proper low-lifes. What infuriates him most about them is how they invoke gods, no matter which ones, without actual reverence or respect, just to leech out money. A con-artist he could respect, but not these lazy rats.

"Move aside, filth." Strogobor almost snarls at the beggar. The corners of the beggar's mouth drop, ready to curse at the mercenary. Before he can, the brute swats his hat off, wide brim proving to be its downfall. The beggar witnesses an extended index finger right before the tip of his nose. "Don't." Strogobor says. "And don't dare try picking my pockets or you'll be visiting the Mother of the Damned to beg for her generosity, like you scum usually do." With that, the rat hurriedly hobbles away back into the shade.

Satisfied to be rid of him and his stench, the mercenary realises that something is off. The beggar left, but stench remained. Puzzled, he looks around to notice that Wojda marked the road with her dung, far more foul-smelling than it was usual for the mare. Colour was odd too. "Blast it!" Strogobor yells out, kicking an imaginary rock in frustration as the last decent apothecary who knew anything about animal ailments died merely a week ago. As he calms down, he caresses the mare's neck and whispers to her. "Seems like you'll have to visit the priestess instead...Hopefully, her powers work on horses." Wojda neighs assuredly.

Strogobor switches the hand holding the reins and starts mapping in the air the path toward the Priestess' lair, as he dubbed it once while drunk. That night ended in a brawl as some of her Damned happened to be as drunk as he was. Maybe offering a donation as an apology for the incident would warm her up to him if she likes to hold a grudge? With his route established, the mercenary recalls a notice board at a crossroad leading to her lair. A job for the old boss man or Lady Z would do him good while Wojda is recovering, Strogobor thinks.