The Painted Staff sits on the east bank like a kettle on a hob.

Hawte is large in the way of people who lift barrels. The sign is a staff with a painted spiral—waymark cousin, inn-cousin. Inside: ale, a roof, a price chalked so nobody has to pretend.

“I am not a hospice,” Hawte says, almost friendly. “I do not take alms and call it a bed. I take pennies and call it a bed. Pernell and I send each other overflow. That’s the law of not being fools.”

A pilgrim in the corner wants both: free like the hospice, private like the inn. Hawte’s eyebrow is a closed gate.

From the door you can see the ridge lifting east. Waymarks should be standing. The bridge behind you still has a hum, fainter or not depending on what you already did.

East bank mud is different from west bank mud: more horses, more pennies, the ridge already lifting. Hawte’s spiral-staff sign is a cousin of Osric’s waymark. Inns and wardens both want you not to get lost; they charge differently for the wanting.