Arran shuffled back through the side-streets - tiny roads that were less alleys than tiny gaps between buildings. A couple of the walls he would have climbed easily in his old body offered him different challenges, with the book going up first, then him wiggling over with difficulty. Had there been anyone looking, they'd probably have seen flashes of his ass and well-thatched pussy a number of times. Thankfully, either no-one noticed, or just decided not to make a noise.<br/><br/>Finally he made it to the small square outside The Ploughed Field - Three Streams' only inna and its principle drinking hole. The usual clientele were merchants coming to pick up goods from the farmer's market, or travellers to whom Three Streams was only a forgettable stop on a journey to some where grander (which, in Arran's mind, was most places). Of course, most everyone stopped through there for drinks, but luckily it was too early for them to show.<br/><br/>Take a deep breath, he walked out of the shadow of building and started across to the inn. He tried to seem calm and unhurried. Black Bill had said that the easiest way to get spotted when doing something dubious was to rush. And Bill would know - he'd been caught for steeling out east, or so they said. Unfortunately, Arran was so focused on walking that he stumbled slightly as his boot caught on the hem of his breeches.<br/><br/>"Gods' teeth!" Damn this body. Arran picked himself up and hurried over to the inn's door, hoping no-one had seen him.