Burtrell leads Tank, William and Serana away from the tavern, laughter and catcalls following them out the door.
"I've got me a big ladder that I used to paint me barns, now that I put the ol' mind to it. I reckon it might do for ye. Give me a hand with this door, big fella," Burtrell says as he tugs on the door of a large barn. The door swings open to a big shadowy space, and a few dozen big brown eyes turn curiously toward Burtrell's lantern. The bald halfling elbows them aside with easy familiarity as he digs in the straw at the back of their stalls, quickly unearthing one end of a wooden ladder made of sticks lashed with sturdy twine into notches cut in two long poles. After a brief interlude wrestling with sleepy cows in the dark, the ladder is carried outside and can be seen to be easily thirty feet long or more, and sturdy enough, though a bit narrow for medium-sized creatures.
Burtrell wipes his forehead and leans against the barn. "Well, there y'go. Hope it does what ye need it to. When ye bring it back, ye can just set it under the eaves there."
"Thank you, Burtrell. Your help means a lot to me," Serana says politely. "What will I owe you for the use of your ladder?"
"Oh, don't worry about it," Burtrell waves dismissively. "I'm sure someday I'll be needin' a hand from you for some little thing or other. We take care of each other; that's what neighbors do, eh?"
"Indeed," Serana says with only a touch of irony. "Well, thank you again."
Burtrell waves again, and then goes inside a small farmhouse across from the barn. Serana picks up one end of the ladder and says "Let's go, please." Her urgency is clear.
The ladder is carried through town and past Serana's home a short way into the woods when Tank and William hear the sound of rustling brush ahead, and a familiar halfling steps out into the path some twenty feet ahead.
"That's far enough. Ye can stop there." It is one of the mocking youths from the tavern. On cue, two of his friends step out from behind trees to either side of the path. All three of them carry stout staffs, held menacingly. The first one continues, "See, me'n the boys think ye owe the town a bit more than just a round of cheap beer for the use of our very valuable ladder. So why don't you just take that fat pouch of yours off your belt and drop it over here, real careful-like, and we'll call it even."