[ TT ] A salt trader , a fisherman and a blacksmith meet at a Gaul brewery .

`` Oof.'' The salt trader grunts as he takes a seat at the round table with three frothing wooden mugs. `` It has been a bumpy road, my back is killing me.'' He says as he places his hands on the small of his back. 
 
 `` *You're* sore?'' The fisherman asks accusingly, `` My oldest son has been swept away by some new prophet as a disciple, and my youngest is still crawling! I've been hauling nets by myself for two weeks. I've never hated a bountiful season more!'' 
 
 The blacksmith laughs and folds his burly, still soot stained arms over his chest, `` You two would n't last a day in the forge.'' He says, `` You think the desert is hot? Try a furnace and melting ore. And you're tired of picking up fish?'' He laughs again, `` Try heavy bronze! And then pound it into shape with a hammer all day long. Then talk to me about sore.'' 
 
 The other two roll their eyes. 
 
 `` But hey-'' The smith continues, `` It beats marching to war, eh.'' 
 
 And like that the sense of brotherhood returns and they thud their mugs together before taking a long, hard earned drink.
