My eyes gave a quick circuit of the square: a cobbler, two farm stands, and a smithy banging away in some undisclosed location in the trees. But what I really wanted was the tavern. Every town had a place for its populace to meet and drink, and it had to be nearby because I was too swilled to walk very far. To my left was a small, shack-like structure that looked about as solid as a chicken coop, and its windows were open to allow the urine odor to properly vent.
The tavern.
Though it hurt my bare knees, I increased my pace until I was sheltered by its overhanging roof. No sign adorned its facade, maybe folks just used their nose. Another nameless addition to this unremarkable burgh.
Luckily enough, my belongings were together in a relatively neat pile by the front door, though one boot hung precariously from the roof's edge. I plucked it free and shook out the vermin before returning it to its rightful place upon my foot, then inventoried the rest: a short bow with about a dozen arrows, three daggers kept hidden under my belt, a heavy skin containing bountiful coin, and a crummy sword that I rarely used but kept out of spite regarding its true owner -- the king. I was once King Heddenforth's Royal Bowman to His Majesty's Official Huntsman, which is a lot like being a page, except instead of toiling for a knight, I generally just skinned what the Official Huntsman shot and killed in the king's name. The sword was merely an honorary thing bestowed upon me, and I was supposed to return it when my Blood Wine curse effectively got me fired. I kept the sword, however, on principle. I felt I had been wrongly dismissed, and as soon as I found a way to cure my curse, I would have my old job back and, of course, my sword which bore my title. It was practical, really, not stubborn, to keep it.
I slung the scabbard around my hip and breathed in the morning air... or perhaps it was afternoon by this point. I needed to get my bearings.