George pushed through the doors of the tavern, and for a moment stood still, gratefully taking in the warm air, as the place he had just arrived from was very, very cold. His aged face was flushed, and he was breathing, while quietly, with difficulty. His free hand (that is, the one not clutching the twisted, hand carved, pine cane) was grabbing at the stitch in his chest. He remained, awkwardly shaking off snow from his dark overcoat. Beady, brown eyes swiveled and swerved around the place, taking in as much as possible. If you were to listen very closely, you could hear him mumbling softly to himself through his labored breaths. One can only imagine what he was saying. He began to walk across the floor.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
The sound of his cane against the wooden floor seemed amplified to George, as he tried his best to walk with his right-heavy limp and not draw attention to himself. All the while, his eyes took in everything, almost habitually. His mumbling ceased, and, as he moved, he never looked anyone in the face, or made any indicating noised or movements that he saw anyone in the first place. He strode around the stage, through the tables, at last arriving in front of a chair at the bar. He took off his overcoat and placed it around the back, revealing earth colored traveling clothes riddled with dirt and worn with use, and then pulled the chair out and sat down with a heavy sigh. Unexpectedly, he bent down and lifted up the left leg of his pants and started to unbuckle various straps clips that seemed to hold something attached to his ankle. Then he pulled off his boot, and, with it, the wooden prosthetic that represented his left foot. He placed it on the bar, the straps dangling off the side, with a grunt of relief. The he waited.