Mosca shivered as the cold rain fell, and the wind blew through the trees. "I say, is it always like this here?"
"No," said Caspar with a yawn. "Sometimes, we have storms."
Mosca stared at the larger man for a moment. "I know you want me to react with shock and horror at your uncultured bumpkins being able to thrive in this nasty weather. But it is wet, and I am tired, and so I will only say shame on you for that horrible joke." He waved a hand. "Shame."
Caspar bowed his head. "My apologies."
Mosca wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. "You realize I know you're mocking me with that, don't you?" Caspar didn't reply. Mosca grumbled to himself, and then glanced back at the small cluster of villagers behind them. A few were throwing large blankets on low-hanging tree limbs, forming rather crude tents. He stared at them for moment and then turned back to Caspar. "That is your plan for all this? Blankets on trees?"
"It's worked before," said Caspar. "Mostly, at least."
"Before?" Mosca blinked. "When was the last time Tintagel had a war."
"Oh, not wars," said Caspar. "But... well, we have an interesting relationship with Ys here in Tintagel. And then there are the pirates."
"Yes, yes," muttered Mosca with a hurried nod. "I see, I see, you have a violent history here. It still... well, damn it, what are you all going to do?"
"What we have always done in the past," said Caspar. "Survive. We're a hard little nut of a land here, mercenary. We don't crack easy. Kings and brigands alike have broken their teeth, trying to break our shell."