Sitting in the firelight at the barracks in Harwick, her gear piled around her chair, the diminutive scout wrote in a makeshift journal. She'd bought a meal and some mead from the bartender, and thus hadn't yet worn out her welcome in that room, and expected to be on her way before she had to buy more.
I'm writing this in Harwick, which I'm about to leave – probably for the last time. Can't quite write down why yet, but I don't expect I'll ever have reason to return.
