Parry moved through a short hallway lined with no-latch doors to either side (a quick peek showed they were nearly identical to his chamber) and finally into a common room, wide and bright. It was a cross between a private and public space, at once a waiting area and an office. It was empty, but a cup of tea steamed on the counter, so it wouldn't be for long.
He'd seen places like this many times. It was a hostel, a bordello, a flop house--student dorm?--and all-around rest area.
A small community, then, where one building had to do it all. Students unlikely, this didn't feel like a college town. No public kitchen, so not an inn or a pub. A few signs in burnt-letter wood boasted pictures: a bed and some coins, a horse and more coins, obviously rates. Low on literacy, high on traveller's accommodations. Maybe it was a town along a trade route?
No luck finding a newspaper or anything on the counter, just a closed ledger by the teacup. Would a town this small even have a press? He almost stepped out the door to see for himself, but it would be more wise to wait for the woman to return. When she did, stepping out from an inner door, her shoulders tightened at him.
"Fine, leave if you want. I've got my coppers, you didn't leave a mess. Healer said bed rest, so don't blame me if you get sick again."
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Parry pretended to try and speak, then pointed to his throat, shrugged, and put on a big bright smile, hoping to disarm her. No such luck. All she did was pull a battered box from under the counter.
He retrieved a well-worn sheath with a utility knife and a pouch with a little jingle to it. Parry didn't count the coins, badly as he wanted to look at them. He could possibly learn what country, or at least continent he was on, from the currency, but it would look like he was indirectly accusing the woman of theft. No sense starting an argument, since he'd never know if she'd pocketed a few coins.
It was bad enough he carried scattered, fragmentary and mixed up memories from tens of thousands of previous lives, but he never knew anything about the life he'd reincarnated into. The only constant he brought with him was his name, or as close a version as existed in whatever language (or grunts, chirps or squeaks) he spoke.
Sunlight felt good on his face. The air was clean and fresh, the town already awake and bustling. Packed-earth road, mostly horses pulling carts, smells of hay and dust, a blacksmith's hammer ringing not too far away, two roosters squaring off along a strip of yard between a stable and a dry-goods store.
A mid-sized town, then, on some kind of larger highway or trading route. Not an ocean port town, though there might be a river, better explore. Answer the most important questions: who am I and where am I?