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What are you waiting for?
Nothing beats waking up with every muscle in your upper body frozen in agony. I'm sure you can imagine the strain of plowing a field your whole life, the callouses, the bunyans, the aches, the sprains, the strains
Imagine making your living battering steel against steel with a constant threat to your mortality.
Byron stood up, and popped every joint in his right arm in one awkward, slothly motion. The limb cracked and grinded bellowing bubbling hollow protest. He made a checklist for everything that mattered.
Pack, sword, bed, blanket, purse, threadbare pauper-ware.
He tucked, and rolled everything neatly into their loops, buckles and belts and lifted his pack onto his shoulders taking a few tentative steps toward the township's main gate.
Two armed guards, who looked alarmingly similar in their jerkins and soft padded helmets snapped smartly to attention, anticipating brigandry and a scuffle from this wornout traveler they had just yesterday asked politely to go take a bath and go away.
"Halt!"
"Easy boys, I'm not coming in." Byron said with his palms held out and up. "I just wanted to ask a couple questions- and maybe a favor."
The two young guards took a step toward each other and whispered over what was to be done with the vagrant no doubt.
Or lunch... Byron had to imagine this remote village saw very little trouble, he snuck a closer look at the guards while they conspired.
Brothers, you could see it in the nose and eyes. Or very "close" cousins.
"State your business" said the guard on his right, probably the older brother.
"I need new clothes, I was wondering if you had a tailor in town, and if I could get something to make me a bit more..."
"-passable?" The guard on the left snuck in.
"Aye. I have-" Byron choked on the word, and the notion "-coin, but I didn't know if you had tradesmen, or if you would accept coin, good, or work, and it was too late to bother with yesterday."
The two guards crept in to trade information before the right guard stood back at attention
"We have tradesmen, but what he'd take as form of payment would be entirely up to him, do you wish to enter town, or would you prefer to send word?"
Byron stroked his dusty scruff contemplating the ramifications. There's always a deathcult, band of lunatic mercenaries organized criminals, or some outworldly horror around the corner in these too-nice-to-be-true towns.
But he did need new pants.
And he could smell cured meat smoking, and eggs frying.
"What comes with me?"
"uuuh" the guard on the left looked to his brother and started to lean, the older guard held up his hand.
"The clothes you have on, and anything I look through and think is safe."
Out of anxiety Byron turned back to consider his sword, and leaving it with strangers.
In moments he was down to a pile of scrap metal armor, a still-bundled pack, and his purse around his waist- after the adept and alert guards had held several of his coins to sunlight in awe of the dozens of monies they had never seen before from lands they would never visit.
"Alright?" He handed his sword gingerly to the senior guard.
"Will be, go on through"
Byron stepped through, the entry's only defenses (aside from having nothing of value, and being a farout ride in any direction up a hill from nothing) were the sharpened logs arranged criss-cross around the township.
"Welcome to Greywood fief"
