He had found the whistle stop close to the end of the second day and had figured that was as good a time as any to sate his bloodlust before it got troublesome. He had only noticed the cloaked mare entering the inn beside what seemed to be an ill-maintained crossroads by chance. He had been raiding the clothesline of one of the locals that night, taking what appeared to be good material, to salvage it of course. Bed linens, table cloth, whichever, planning on using it to patch his tattered mess of clothes and fix his cloak so he wouldn't be running around like a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen. Didn't know a damn thing about darning or sewing but he'd learn, damn it.