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	[u]Weather[/u]: Still raining lightly, still cool of temperature. The wind is thankfully low, though the occasional mild gust makes things interesting. 

	[u]Time[/u]: Mid to late afternoon.  

	[u]Ambience[/u]: The cessation of hostilities in what had been a pitched battle just a minute prior and the tense but subtle movement of shutters among the braver or more curious of townsfolk come to an end, bringing about something akin to stillness. Silence was not accurate as the white noise of rain was constant, yet this atmospheric sizzling sound blotted out anything too far away from the party. Everything stood localized to the former battleground and the silversmith's shop. They were most definitely not in the Township by themselves, even if the immediate surroundings hinted at this. 

[center][color=darkgray][h2]*****[/h2][/color][/center] 

	The downed Guard offered nothing in the way of resistance. His state of general unconsciousness made this an easy, if involuntary lack of action on his part, though if he were awake he might have voiced some objections at how his damaged arm was being treated. In the end, he became like so much (mostly) human luggage, bound by rope and being carried away from wisps of his own blood upon the ground and his dropped spear. Or to put it simply, the half-dead guy came along quietly. 

	Inside of the shop, the silversmith looked to Kosara oddly, correcting her reference to his surname with a simple, [color=darkgray]"Mallard,"[/color] before turning to Marita. Or trying to. His eyes and attention were arrested by the damp, skinny pig wrapped in burlap following the auburn haired musician. He appeared to shake it off and responded to the Cleric with, [color=darkgray]"Yes, yes... I fully intend to relocate. I have to wait a little longer, first."[/color] He nodded almost feverishly, as if in vigorous agreement with himself. [color=darkgray]"I have to give my family time to get further away from this place. After the full moon of Harvestide has gone, I shall go to them. I am buying them time, in case anyone goes sniffing around for them or I am taken by the [i]rats[/i]."[/color] 

	A heavy sigh and Jacques declared, as a break from his ongoing train of thought, [color=darkgray]"If you bring that poor bastard in here, he enters with his eyes closed and he leaves that way, too. I don't care what state he is in, otherwise."[/color] A lamp was acquired and lit, providing much better illumination in the small storefront. 

	Getting back to it, [color=darkgray]"Do you mind if I work while we talk?"[/color] he asked, but immediately responded without waiting for permission, [color=darkgray]"Good. Lots to do, lots to do. Who else needs a silvered item?"[/color] His eyes shifted to whomever else was within his direct vicinity, then took up the slim sword left by Victoria. [color=darkgray]"Elegant looking for a common blade. I'll fix it up well - and anyone else with you. You paid good gold, and I think I owe you my life, too."[/color] Jacques gave a wry smile and picked up a couple of his tools, including the strange stylus-like object he used to fluidly score the metal from the manacles earlier, and said, [color=darkgray]"I'm not entirely helpless. But I cannot hold out forever; this is true. Enjoy the safety of my walls for as long as you need, but you really should get that package to Bob before nightfall. He'll need it. This aside, how else might I be of help? Ah, and take a look around the shop, if you like."[/color]

	The careful hands of the silversmith locked the cut & thrust sword into place with a vice and began to score fine, artistic patterns into the blade. The pot sitting over the flameless heat of his small forge rippled momentarily across the surface of the molten metal within.