3

She returns shortly. Walking straight towards you she chucks a bundle of clothes at your feet, and then slaps three gold pieces on the table.

“Help me run the farm for today. You can sleep here tonight, and tomorrow you’ll go to my uncles and tell him to send help down here.”

“What sort of help?” you ask, wondering what sort of man her uncle is.

“Sellswords and farm hands. That way we deal with whatever killed my father and brother, and the farm can recover. After that, I’ll likely sell it and move into town. Just as soon as the beasts are safe there’ll be nothing for me down here.”

It occurs to you she is in a similar situation to you at present. Only one of you is an orphan by choice rather than circumstance. You take the gold and make to stand up, in spite of your wobbly legs. “Anything I can do.” you say.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Mortimer.”

“I’m Elia. You’re going to need better rags, Mortimer. Come, we’ll find something for you of my dearest late brother.”

She leads the way walking swiftly. You wonder how much of it is a shield and how much of it is actual **** of character. It doesn’t matter. You’ve got gold and a bed to sleep in.

Turn to 17.