Artaith is grateful to be on the road, it feels like something that matters, at least. She trudges along stoically, taking quick steps throughout the day just to keep up, but making no complaints over it. When the caravan passes by the Goblins, she actually looks eager for a fight, and ultimately makes no show of her disappointment when the vile little critters prove to understand some scraps of self-preservation. "Only good Goblin's a dead one," she spits, as Philemon voices his more measured concerns.

Between stone walls, making a meal of lamb stew, she gladly devours at least an extra half portion to restore her weary limbs from the day's hard march. Unlike most of the merchants who stay up late sharing tales and drinking ales, Artaith makes an early departure to sleep, having been noticeably unused to the long days of hard marching.

A few days later, she's begun to acclimate to the hard march, and her shifts are hanging a little looser than before. Certainly, she's still stocky, and has plenty of muscle to go around, but the near-constant aerobics have nonetheless had an obvious and predictable result on her physique. She squints suspiciously at the oncoming caravan and snorts at Philemon's comment. "Hell, I could hear 'em on a moonless night. They definitely aren't trying to pass unnoticed."

She sniffs disdainfully, eying them as they approach. "Either way, we're hired as guards. Best be ready for excitement." Her hands drift to the haft of her axe, almost of their own accord, and she brings the shield around over her shoulder. A moment later, she calls down the blessing of Yngret Yellow-Hair, and her blade begins to flicker with a ruddy glow.

Spoiler: OOC
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Mechanically, she's going to draw both weapon and shield and use one of her daily uses of the fire blessing to enhance her axe with a little kick of heat.