The market square is a dusty and often muddy place. Bordered by the bakery, the inn, and featuring a large fountain to one side. Past the fountain lies the smithy, and it's smoking chimney.The homes and shops that overlook it are of the lower middle classes, not the wealthy merchants of Hangman's Square. Farmers sell their crops from carts, and old women in dirty clothing sell cheap ceramic bowls of hot food from boiling cauldron's of stew and victuals. Pigs kept on thin rope are bartered for by toothless old men, and chickens wander aimlessly. Children run between legs and dogs chase them, their eyes on a waving stick, or perhaps a prize muffin. At night the Market becomes deserted, and only a few scraps of trash remain, the silence broken only by the gurgling fountain.