Artaith smirks, offering reassurance in her own brusque way. "Just sayin'. Seems odd ta have yer hand on the blade is all." Having made no actionable offense, she moves on her business, confused at the watch captain's apparent rudeness. She stops by the market to buy a few weeks' rations, not quite content to rely upon Philemon's aid. Her purchases are notably heavy on the "salted mutton" side of things, but there's a few handfuls of dry-packed cheese, nuts, and fresh bread (to be re-packed for longevity later) among her pack.

The next morning, Artaith rises in a good mood, having partaken some moderate amount of the local brews the night before. Like some kind of inverse hangover, the gentle ales seem to have bolstered her body as well as spirits. She has to hurry to maintain the taller folks' pace, as they set off down the King's Road, but she makes no complaints and if it's more than nominal effort, she hides it well. The sight of occasional mounted patrols only leaves her more comfortable, confident that only an absolute fool would molest a party such as theirs on an often-surveilled road.

Which makes her attitude as their journey takes them into the wilds a stark contrast. After the first fire, the stout woman begins to grumble over the hassles of wet and muddy mail and greaves. When it quickly becomes apparent that the fords are more the rule than exception, she amazes her companions by demonstrating a notably fouler attitude. Though it mostly remains under her breath, the air becomes abuzz with both the wings of insects and a steady stream of ever-more-colorful curses. The encroaching woods seem to threaten her into silence, but the tension continues to mount further and further, leaving everyone wondering if the stout woman is going make it to Grimmsgate before she snaps.

Finally, they seem to stumble upon a village (at least it seems that way to her, having long since lost any sense of distance or time), and the pervasive pressure of irritation and frustration evaporates like a bubble on the surface of a pond. Artaith quickly makes her way to the tavern and is 3 tankards deep on the local brew before she comes up for air long enough to complain about the name. "In a world with Dwarves and Gnomes, who names a stout on a stodgy, skinny old miser like a wizard?" She snorts, chuckles, and takes another long draught before ordering a fourth. She smiles widely- a bizarre and discomfiting sight. "Well, whoever he is, he makes a fine brew! Can't name it worth horses' p**s, but nobody's perfect."