You can't trust avaricious mercenaries. You choose .

The longer you think about it, the less you feel comfortable with entering the camp to parlay. From all accounts these men are wicked and greedy, and even if that one account is very biased. Even still, you don't wish to take the chance. Instead, you resolve to drive these bandits off by ****. And the key to that, you reckon, is to kill this 'Karl'. Without their leader, the Magpies would become disorganised, leading to either fleeing or being picked off one by one. You hope, at least.

Your warrior's heart does yearn for battle, and you consider walking up to the camp right now to challenge for battle. But even at your most foolhardy that seems suicidally reckless. There's no way you can take on at least 15 trained men by yourself. Not yet, anyway.

Retreating a few paces until you're clear out of sight, you relax against a tree and think. Your mind returns time and again to one entry strategy. A night infiltration. You could get in, kill their leader, and get out, and by the morning they may have either fled or dispersed. Your soft fingers rub against your sharp, elven chin, and you feel yourself smile in spite of yourself. Perhaps the mayor's mannerisms has rubbed off on you some.

After spending a few minutes more thinking and being unable to conjure up an idea other than taming a wild beast and riding it into the camp, dealing **** in every direction, which seems stupid, or setting the camp on fire, which is doubtful will work, you decide to wait until nightfall and strike in a very sneaky manner. You twiddle an imaginary moustache at the dastardly nature of the plan, and giggle softly to yourself.