A Morning Walk

After meeting with Hunter the previous day, Tarmen had joined his fellows at the Drunken Hare in order to begin his own celebrations. A few drinks, a few laughs, and a few smashed tables ended the night on a rather jolly note. He had even helped put a few of the shoddy planks back together, since it was a holiday after all.
Now as the dawn came upon the Fall Festival, Tarmen greeted it on the streets. He had been strolling for a while, being disturbed in his sleep by the same feeling of being somewhere foreign.
For much of his life it had saved him from being killed in his sleep or kidnapped, but here it only continued to leave him restless. Several of his mates had suggested a night with one of the regular girls, recommending their favorites and who they thought was clean. Tarmen had fiddled with the idea, though was hesitant to do so this early since arriving. He hadn’t gotten to know them yet, a thought that he quickly added to. He simply had a type was all, just as he had said last night.
Another tinge of sorrow hit him as he thought back to his mainland favorite, a girl he had been sweet on in his hometown. He had always enjoyed the way she danced during the festival and idly wondered if she had been hurt by his absence, doubting it even as he played it over in his mind. Would she be looking for him this year, perhaps thinking he had backed out of the whole plan.
A short clatter thankfully brought Tarmen back to reality. He instinctively drew his machete, preparing to lunge, only to deflate at the sight of the butcher. He hadn’t even realized he was in the vendor part of town, catching him even more off guard and leaving the two staring at each other for a moment.
Once the initial caution of the moment left the butcher’s eyes, he broke a small grin to try and break the tension.
“Ear’y start, eh F’espit?”
Softening at the man’s light hearted jest, he stowed his weapon and quickly moved to help relegate their standoff to the past. Grabbing the shop’s cleaver and waving it semi-teasingly at the man, Tarmen changed the subject.
“Tarmen. Not Frespit.”
This brought a guffaw, complimented with mock hands of surrender.
“Then qui’ answerin’ to it! Since ya alrea’y did how’va, star’ choppin’. Do good nuff an’ I migh’ put in a word at the ‘Are. ‘Eard you an’ yours was causin’ grief fer the Tender las’ night.”
Raising a brow as if he was a father who approvingly judged his sons misdeeds, the butcher kept laughing as a bit of gristle whistled past his head.
“I fixed those tables, didn’ I? What else does he want, a kiss?”
As much as the man teased him, Tarmen appreciated the work and liked that he rarely asked questions. It gave him something to do besides staying in the barracks or being stuck on guard duty, left to his thoughts, and also put the townsfolk at ease, which allowed him to enjoy some of his shadier habits with minimal suspicion.
In a better mood now, Tarmen thought again about meeting the local ladies.
Screw it, after all it would be in the spirit of the Fall Festival and it wouldn’t be possible to be chaste on such a day.