Joshua shot the bard a look.  Though neither could see the other in the near pitch black, the bandits lantern  having tumbled down and just gone out, he shot her a suddenly annoyed look.  Though not specifically fond of her meek act, her change came off as harsh.  "As you wish, your grace.  Just cover your eyes for a moment."

The pyromancer was the first through the door, though in the instant he was through, he summoned a brilliant white flame that succeeded in blinding most of the men.  A familiar voice cursed and sputtered; indeed, the one-eyed bandit had come for his own petty revenge.  But he was on the other side of the room, suddenly stumbling over a chair.

Joshua ignored him, advancing on the nearest bandit, uselessly flailing with his sword.  The smith needed only blow sparks from his hand and the spell set fire to the other man's face.  He screamed as his skin sizzled, dropping his sword to the floor as he clawed vainly at his burns.  The smith took the hilt of his dagger to the bandits temple, knocking him cold.

By now, a fallen lantern, likely dropped in the confusion of Joshua's luminous explosion, has spilled fuel, setting a small fire to the tavern by which Tara could likely see.

"No sweat," Joshua said.  Whatever the bard was after, gods help the man when she caught up with him.  "Besides," he added, reaching for the door.  Yanking the door open, he reveal a shocked assassin with his dagger out.  The smith gave a quick lunge, not with his dagger but his empty hand.  Two figers against his sternum...

Two fingers was all it took as the mage willed heat - impossible, horrifying heat - into the man.  He did not even have time to scream past melted lungs.  A flash of steam as the fluid in his eyes turned to steam.  The bandit's face turned scarlet as his brain boiled in his skull.  In the coarse of a second, he suffered the worst agony a human could and then died, falling forward into the room.

Looking back to the bard, Joshua felt confident in his next proclamation.  "Looks like Eyepatch and his friends came to renegotiate."  After all, the man he had just killed had been one of the lackies who left with the lead bandit earlier.

Feeling the point of the knife touch his neck, Joshua froze.  Wait - Eyepatch?  Was that the man he had talked to earlier.  He had no great loyalty to the man, so raising his hands, he calmly said, "I spoke to a man with a patch earlier today.  He demanded half a dozen muskets for he and his men by tonight.  I said no."

As he spoke, odd thoughts clicked into place.  He would keep those thoughts to himself for now.  "Let's handle this now, and if we get out of this alive, I'll help you find him."  As he stopped talking the latch on the door lifted: Joshua did not dare move with the knife at his bare throat.  It was her move...

Joshua moved quickly to the table, taking up his knife.  It slipped out of his scabbard with an airy hiss and for an instant, its long, forge welded blade was visible in the candle light before the flame was snuffed by the smiths breath.  Its straight blade was narrow and single edged, optimized for thrusting but capable of cutting.  Pushing Tara toward the wall, he prepared an ambush from behind the door.

"Looks like I pissed someone off," Joshua whispered as one of the assailants approached the door.  "Sorry."  Though after he said it, he realized they might have been after her instead.  Either way, they were both in it.

"I-uh..." Joshua stumbled.  "I suppose not."  Coughing to ease his still rising discomfort, he explained, "It just seemed odd, changing shirts and not your skirt.  I mean if you want to keep it on, feel free, but don't inconvenience yourself over me."  The young man was not sure which aspect of himself was winning his war: his willpower or his inner lecher.

At around that point, Joshua 'sensed' something.  He had never bothered trying to explain to others what it was like, so 'sense' seemed to be the best word on hand.  He felt five blobs of heat moving, moving in very suspicious, very human ways.  Five people were creaping toward the entrance to the tavern and without meaning to, the pyromancer was looking in their direction, through the wood of the now shared chamber door...

Joshua found himself instinctively looking away from the bard.  He was frighteningly modest, feeling guilty at the sight of a nude (or in this case partially nude) figure.  He turned when he felt she had had enough time to change and gave a relieved sigh when he found his estimate correct.

Moving on from there, the smith turned back to Tara.  He noticed something odd about about her current wardrobe.  "Why?" he began, looking down.  "Why are you still wearing your skirt?"  For the life of him, he could not think of a reason to leave it on.  Was she trying to hide something?  Joshua blushed again as his imagination took him where he had not meant to go...

By this point, Joshua had slipped out of his jacket, clad in his loose fitting spock as he glanced at the woman.  "I thought I said you could take the bed."  Indicating the chair, the smith explained, "This was where I meant to sleep."  Pulling up one of the blankets, he threw it over his shoulders like a cloak.  Then a thought came to him.  "Was there anything you usually do before going to bed?  A change of clothes?  I can step out if you needed any privacy."  It seemed unlikely she would do so, but he put the offer forward.

Turning, Joshua gave Tara an apologetic smile.  "I didn't mean to imply otherwise.  The room is still open to you."  The smith's focus slid to the master, adding, "I assume that's not a problem?"

The tavern master shrugged.  "Not my place to say what people can do at night."

Blushing, the young man snapped, with more embarrassment than anger, "That's not what I meant."  The older man simply waved him off, heading upstairs with his daughter, who herself seemed embarrassed by the turn of the conversation.  Deciding not to push things, Joshua just shook his head and showed Tara to his rented chamber.

It was not a large room, so not much would fit inside.  The door swung inward, revealing only three pieces of furniture: the small bed which looked looked just big enough for one person (or two if they lay very close together), a chair with a pile of blankets on it, and a small table that carried a small candle and a large knife, hilt within easy reach of the chair.  The sword from earlier hung beside the door, awaiting its owners return.

Passing a glance toward Tara, the smith shrugged.  Moving his drink away from his mouth, he said, "Not exactly.  I've just had my fill."  Tipping his drink back, Joshua finished off the last of his beer before setting down his mug.  With a sudden yawn, the man undid the collar of his jacket.  "I always get a bit drowzy when I drink.  I guess I'll be heading to bed..." he muttered.  Slipping from the stool, Joshua made his slow way toward his room.

It did not take long for the young man to reclaim his seat.  Taking his refilled ale, he had a long pull.  At a glance, more and more of the towns folk were spilling out and Joshua realized the tavern owner would be closing shop soon.  The burly man was putting up an unopened barrel.  "One more?" he asked of the pair.

Draining his mug, the smith said, "No, thanks.  Bad idea to over indulge."  It was true enough; he would be light headed soon.  Barely so, but enough for Joshua's tastes.  He continued his own drawn out process of draining his mug.

The barkeep nodded and glanced toward the Bard as well.  "You?"

Finally able to relax, Joshua offered a brief smile to the attractive woman.  "It's no problem.  I completely understand."  And to an extent, he thought he did.  People had needs, drives, desires.  They often craved connection and closeness.  The smith did as well, but he tended to handle things differently than most.

Finishing off his ale, the man shrugged the sword higher onto his shoulder.  "That all being said, I wouldn't turn down another drink.  I just need to put this guy away for tomorrow."  Joshua signalled for a refill before excusing himself, slipping toward his room.  Hanging the scabbard off a wall hook kept it out of the way before returning to Tara.

The feeling of this woman against Joshua's arm stripped away all doubt; Tara was toying with him.  The disconnect between her overt closeness and mock hesitance let him at a loss, though.  He was not good with subtlety.  Direct confrontations and outright lies were easy to respond to, since he knew where he stood in regards to a speaker.  But this?

Taking another sip of his drink, the smith tried to will the blood from his ears.  Avoiding Tara's gentle hand, Joshua said, "I-I think you give folks too little credit."  The young man was visibly tense by now, and it was unlikely the girl would miss it.  He seemed about to say more until he cut himself with another sip of beer.

"Thanks," Joshua said when his drink came.  He had only meant to have one drink, but if Tara was paying, who was he to say no?  He had slung the scabbard over his shoulder, putting it out of sight.  The smith was nervous about showing off his work.  The steel he made was rare, above the quality of an average smelter.  And while he doubted the bard knew much about the finer points of crucible steel, Joshua was unwilling to risk the scrutiny.

Quickly shifting his attention, the smith asked, "Does that mean you plan to accept the offer?"  After another gulp of beer, he continued, "Like I said, it'll save money since everything's already payed for."  By now, various patrons were trickling out the doors, returning to their homes and families...

Slipping through the crowd, Joshua took a seat next to the bard.  "Hello, again," he said, setting the reforged sword on the counter.  Spotting one of the other drunk patrons moving suspiciously, the smith shifted suggestively close to Tara and the fool backed off.  "Barkeep, beer!"

As a mug of ale was set before him, Joshua took it, turning to the girl.  "So, how was business?" he asked, taking a sip.  He was trying to be subtle, hoping to avoid the suggestion of impropriety, while still getting an offer to his previous offer.

The customer left and after finishing the last of his meal, so did Joshua.  He had to be careful: by Connlaothian law, the practice of magic was a crime.  Yet without, none could yet achieve the purity that the pyromancer could.  Ducking into his cart, the young man shut his door before getting the work.

The first step was melting down the entire blade, child's play really.  Pouring two pounds of white hot steel into a clay vessel, he let the slag precipitate out, then break off the trash.  Mix in charcoal as it melts again and pour it into the basic shape of a sword.  Casting steel had long been considered a fools errand as it as most could not control how quickly the metal cooled.  Joshua smirked: by his magic, he was a the god of steel.  Hammering the blade was still the hard part, but for him, that was all it was.

Once the blade was purified and shaped, magic was no longer useful.  The steel needed to be hardened, tempered, ground to a razor's edge and mounted and these were all in the realm of tradition.  It was not until late evening when Joshua finally emerged, finished sword in hand.  He would hold onto it until tomorrow as he returned to the tavern.

As Tara's hand came to rest gently on his hand, Joshua cocked an eyebrow.  Though reasonably handsome, women rarely threw themselves at him and the smith was left to question whether he was misreading the situation.  It was her pause that seemed most telling, lacing 'talk' with layers of hidden meaning.  Clearing his throat, Joshua replied, "Yes,I suppose we could talk later..."  About what, he was not entirely sure.  That might well be a bridge they'd need to cross later.

Picking up his plate, the young man went to the peasant swordsman.  Drawing the blade, he began to appraise it in the style that only he could.  Oh, sure, anyone could look at the blade and see if it has warped, guage the quality of the grind, feel the fit of the mounting.  And to the uninitiated, Joshua looked to be doing just that.  But hidden from most were the micro imperfections that only the mage could feel.  Channelling heat into the blade, he felt is spill across its length.  The movement of the heat told him where the slag had been trapped in the steel, where it should be harder or softer.  All of this was done without fire, unseen to all but those who knew how to look.

From without, the blade looked fine.  But Joshua could tell something was wrong.  "The steel is too hard," he said.  "Brittle like glass.  Try and use it in a fight and it stands a good chance of breaking."  Slipping the sword back into the scabbard, Joshua gave the other man an estimate that the other quickly accepted.  "I should have it ready for you tomorrow."

"Makes sense," Joshua admitted, regarding the bard's logic.  Highwaymen were not what one would call uncommon anywhere.  So it seemed obvious to avoid carrying valuables as a first line of defense.  It did not always work though, so the ability to boil a man's eyes out was a reliable fallback.  "If," the smith began, having swallowed another mouthful of soup.  "If it comes down to it, and you can't rent a room, I would be willing to share."  Holding his hands up in mock surrender before Tara could respond, he declared his innocence, saying, "Not the bed mind you.  I would take the chair."  Returning to the meal, Joshua added, "I sleep better sitting up anyway."

Glancing back to  where he had been seated earlier, Joshua noticed another of the villagers.  He held a scabbard, obviously looking for the smith to perhaps maintain it.  He gave the customer a nod, acknowledging him but continued eating.

The rogue pyromancer understood not being from anywhere.  Who he was meant he was almost always running from something.  It was different, but it was sort of the same.  Still, he thought he saw a hint of sadness behind her eyes.  It was gone so quick that Joshua doubted he had seen it at all.

"More or less," Joshua admitted after her question.  "There are rooms in the back with beds and such.  I still have business in town so I was planning to stay a few more nights."  He took a sip of ale before moving on to explain, "I work steel by trade.  Mostly tools but out here, its hard to get in touch with some of the official guilds."  He was surprised at how good the soup turned out and ended up engrossed in its simplicity for longer than he meant.  Turning back to Tara he asked, "You planning on staying for a while?"

Joshua shut his eyes, letting the somber melody wrap around him.  He was not familiar with the song itself but the emotions it was meant to evoke were universal.  And though he had never been close enough to anyone to have a real sense of that kind of love, a part of him longed for it.  A single, solitary tear rolled down his cheek.  A manly tear!  The smith coughed, taking the opportunity to wipe his face before saying, "I should hope so."

It was about that moment the tavern master and what appeared to be his daughter returned.  Two wooden plates and two soup bowls were set before he patrons.  "House special," the barkeep joked, dryly.  He was quickly called away by another patron as the girl left them with utensils.

"So," Joshua continued, cutting into the chicken.  "You don't seem to be from around here.  What brings a Serenian bard to an out of the way little hole like this?  If you don't mind me asking."  He slipped the little piece of chicken into his mouth, signalling he was done talking for the moment.

Sorry to necro post but dangit, I started it.

One thing to take note off in regards to historical warbowmen: despite their common origin, archery was a full- or at least part-time job.  Those who practiced needed an incentive to maintain their physicality.  This meant that in English armies, they were maintained by high wages that rivalled the income of full time men-at-arms (armored cavalry after "Knight" became a title for landed gentry).  They were often payed well enough that, at least anecdotally, they often went into battle wearing custom fitted plate armor.

Compare that to a crossbowmen, who had maybe 1 year of formal training and really were seen as disposable.  For example, at the Battle of Crecy, when the exhausted, unarmored and out"gunned" Genoese crossbowmen were forced to engage English longbowmen, they attempted to flee and were promptly massacred by their own cavalry.