I Wish I Were Homeward Bound

[pretendtoneedme]

WHO: Clint Barton
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: January 15
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: None so far really? Will change if that crops up

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In the early afternoon on the day after the blizzard had died down, a figure can be seen trudging through the snow with obvious difficulty from the south, away from the village, bundled up to the eyeballs and beyond in what might be every stitch of clothing a person in the village could possess. The empty quiver on its back and makeshift bow in one hand give a few obvious clues to the identity of the figure, but except for stopping at one of the farthest-out houses to steal a blanket to wrap around himself, he's caught in that single-minded drive of those on their last legs to keep moving and so doesn't stop until he arrives at his destination.

The inn is warm, staffed, and closer than the house he resides in, and so that's where he goes, still at that same plodding, slow, relentless pace he's been using the entire walk, having to push through or even crawl gingerly over snowbanks as he moves. Pulling open the door, he steps into the main room and gives a heavy sigh of relief, dropping the bow and blanket on the floor and proceeding to unwrap his scarf and pull off the outermost layer of jacket, still slow, shivering as he moves. As his face is revealed, it's definitely Clint, looking battered, bruised, and exhausted and with a dull light in his normally sharp eyes. Right now he probably couldn't defend himself from just about anything. When he speaks, his voice is gravelly and low.

"I almost got out. Anyone got any food or water?"