Pulling out a ball of pemmican from a hanging bag, Marcon chews thoughtfully. The wealth of utility isn't the fortune he'd hoped to make, but the day is still young. 

"If I could carry you all, I would," he muses. "Alas."

Restocking his quiver and grabbing a crowbar, Marcon emerges into the square and moves toward the others, still chewing the pemmican.

[Hider]Back up to 20 arrows, crowbar, and trail rations, assuming those are sufficiently common.[/hider]

@ynnek7