Spoiler! :
It was nearly noon when Hieronymus Heel returned to The Bird's Helm, the inn in which he had reluctantly taken up residence. The sky that day was cloudless and threatened to burn Hieronymus's already itching flesh in the most horrible way, so he found himself huddled under a table waiting for scraps to drop from customers' plates. The day had been unproductive--this town had no books nor any alchemists or artificers to speak of, and there was only so much one could do even posing as a little person. Hiding his head and face was difficult enough without his legs and arm posing a problem, and he'd been nearly stomped on in several shops while making inquiries.
He retreated early from his endeavors and resolved to save money by scrounging, which was more lucrative later in the day when the drunks could keep next to nothing on their plates. Hieronymus himself never drank; he was far too small and besides, drinking dulled the senses. A hounded creature such as himself couldn't afford to slip up.
Hieronymus turned the crank sideways to bend and reached for a scrap of bread that had fallen from the customer's table and nibbled on it quietly, glancing around to gauge if anybody had seen. It seemed they hadn't, and so he crouched there chewing, a few crumbs falling to the ground from his mouth.
(@TheMultiColoredCyr)
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