Suddenly, she stopped and turned to Grumgh. Her clumsy movements nearly made her bump into him.
"Listen," she said, looking at his broad, green face, etched with grooves of fatigue and mud. "Since we're going together and... probably going to die, we should probably know each other's names. That's how it's done, right?"
Grumgh looked up. His eyes, deep-set under heavy brows, seemed awkwardly human.
"That is rational," he replied after a moment. "Exchanging basic identification data will facilitate action coordination. I am Grumgh."
"Tamira," the half-elf replied, instinctively straightening up, which ended in a slight wobble. Her ears twitched slightly, drooping a bit. "So... Grumgh. How do we plan to get there? It's far. Do you have a plan?"
Grumgh fell silent for a long moment. His brain, trained in memorizing treaties, not in planning logistical operations, worked with visible effort. His gaze traveled from his own torn boots, past Tamira's thin cloak, to the ten copper coins in her pouch.
"Analyzing available resources," he began, speaking slowly and methodically, "we possess insufficient capital to rent any mount, let alone a carriage. The average cost for a one-day mule rental is..."
"Grumgh!" Tamira interrupted him, grabbing her head. "Say it simpler so I can understand!"
"We cannot afford a horse," stated the orc. "Self-transport remains. Foot travel."
"I have some money!" Tamira squeaked, reaching for her own pouch.
The orc, with a swift and wild motion, snatched her pouch and began counting the coins. "Four coppers," he began, laboriously conducting new calculations.
Grumgh silently shuffled the coins in his hand for a moment, his wide, green forehead furrowed in concentration. He looked as if he were working through complex equations in his mind, not just counting a handful of jingling scrap metal.
"Assuming," he finally began, in a voice that sounded like dragging heavy furniture across a stone floor, "that the daily caloric requirement for an individual of my mass is approximately three thousand calories, and for yours, estimated at eighteen hundred, and given that an average loaf of medium-quality bread provides three hundred calories and costs one copper, and lodging in the cheapest inn 'on the straw' is two coppers per head..."
"Just tell me if it's enough or not!"
The orc looked at her over his wire-frame glasses, seemingly surprised by this lack of scientific curiosity.
"Our combined financial resources amount to fourteen coppers," he announced solemnly. "The average cost of survival per day on the road, accounting for minimal sustenance and the cheapest lodging, is ten coppers for you and twelve for me, totaling twenty-two. The Landon's Corner is approximately seven days of foot travel under good conditions, which amounts to one hundred and fifty-four coppers. We are therefore operating under a deficit of one hundred and forty coppers. Not to mention unforeseen expenses such as bridge tolls, potential footwear repairs, or..."
"So it's not enough!" she interrupted him, distraught. Her dream of escape suddenly receded by a silver piece and a half. "What now? Go back and ask Borin for more? Or..." her gaze fell on the lute in its case. "Maybe we sell... this?"
Grumgh looked at the instrument with cold, analytical curiosity.
"Critical condition. Two strings broken, body scratched, no collector's value. Estimated market value: one, maybe two coppers. This does not significantly alter the equation."
Tamira sighed heavily. Her shoulders slumped. They were at the end of their rope before they had even begun. She stood in the middle of the muddy road, with an orc-intellectual and a broken lute, and before them, seven days of a starvation march leading nowhere.
"An alternative strategy exists," Grumgh suddenly announced, interrupting her dark thoughts.
"What?" she asked, not hiding her hope.
"Elimination of lodging costs through camping and reduction of sustenance costs through foraging."
"What?"
"Foraging. Sustaining ourselves on what we find in the forest. Roots, berries, mushrooms."
"And what if we poison ourselves?"
"The probability of fatal poisoning with a modicum of caution and basic knowledge is only eighteen percent. That is an acceptable risk compared to the one hundred percent certainty of failure under the current economic model."
Tamira looked at him in disbelief. He was proposing they live off forest weeds. This was a new level of desperation.
"And weapons?" she asked, pointing to Grumgh's empty hands and her own useless lute. "How do we plan to deal with hauntings? Are we going to pelt ghosts with berries?"
Grumgh began tapping the back of his head. 'The Basics of Tactics and Neutralization of Non-Physical Threats by Archmage Therion,' he began, his voice taking on the tone of someone reciting a treatise again, "indicate that fancy weaponry is not necessary in combat against bionecrotic entities. Key are salt, which disrupts their etheric bonds, and silver, which absorbs negative energy. Fire is also highly effective, though it requires maintaining a safe distance. Analogously, water blessed by a priest may prove useful."
Tamira stared at him, feeling the last remnants of hope sink like a stone.
"Salt? Silver?" she said, her voice flat. "I thought you might have a hidden axe. Or at least a solid stick. We have nothing. Not a pinch of salt, not a piece of silver. Are your glasses made of silver?"
Grumgh touched the frame on his nose, looking deeply thoughtful.
"Tin alloy with a copper admixture. Useless," he declared after a moment.
"Great. Just great," Tamira covered her face with her hands. "So our plan is to walk for a week, living on poisonous berries, and then, when we get there, throw insults at the wraiths and sing them my ballads until they die of boredom, or what?"
"Statistically speaking, music can indeed induce a state of stupor in bionecrotic entities, similar to the effects of certain stupor spells," stated Grumgh with absolutely deadpan seriousness. "However, it is not recommended as a primary offensive method. Insufficient scalability."
Tamira looked at him, not knowing whether to cry or laugh hysterically. Instead, the stubbornness inherited from her human parent took over again. She straightened up, though her knee trembled.
"Alright. We have no choice anyway. We go. We gather what we can. And when we get there... well, we'll figure something out. We can always run. I'm quite good at running," she added, though her life's history contradicted that thesis.