With the thrill of the Banshee hunt over, there was little to do but return to the guildhall for a debrief then go home. Covered in mud and blood as he was, Emmett knew he would have to go to the farm for a change of clothes and a wash before he picked up the kids, so he wouldn't scare them. None of the blood was his except for the three raccon scratches on his face, not deep or serious but drawn harsh across his nose, dripping red down his face.
Despite all of this, he was grinning. He had helped to accomplish something real and had seen immediate results, not the kind of thing he had in abundance at the minute, the kinds of things where the rewards were years in the future.
Swinging his axe along with his feet (there were not many people about in the early evening, which he was glad for; being seen like this would probably not help his reputation at the market) he whistled a jaunty tune, walking along the street and looking up into the sky.
Emmett
Had a dream
you and me and the war of the end times
