[A floor plan schematic of the Roast Boar, along with a Trip-Advisor review of both food and lodging.]

Inside the Boar fires burn, smoke winds its ways, and dull murmurs of conversations shot through with the occasional shout of laughter and drunken exuberance can be heard. All in all a civilised venue of hard working farmers and farm hands, good-wives, shopkeepers and basket-weavers, not to forget fisherfolk - a representative cross section of the local community all huddled together of an evening, enjoying the fruits of their labours with Millicent, the proud owner of the Boar, who stands behind the bar keeping a beady eye on her staff, occasionally shouting orders and holding court with the regulars.

[Millicent at the bar, bar towel in hand, a couple of regulars sitting on stools, their backs to the viewer]

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A gust of wind bolsters the doors, which clatter open to reveal two very bedraggled silhouettes who shuffle miserably forward, leaving a trail of water across the flagstone floor. Conversations slow somewhat and eyes gaze on the sorry mess that has just arrived. Hood squelches up to the bar. Slightly diminutive in stature, he searches in his robe’s pockets, his hand fighting to escape the wet material, before reaching up with a soggy hand and slapping two gold coins upon the counter. Millicent looks down, questioningly at him and the inn seems to hold its breath in momentary silence... Hood manages a single, teeth chattering, utterance: “Ssssooop”...before the inn resumes its usual hubbub.

“Soup it is!” shouts Millicent “Two bowls of the Roast Boar’s finest. An’ clear a space by the fire lest these rats drown in their own garments or succumb to their deaths from cold!”