Sharden is far from a bustling center of business and trade. It's clear that it is a small enough town that everyone knows everyone else, and they know who to go to if they need a particular type of food or service. As such, there is no market and almost nothing resembling a shop. A few locals are moving about town on errands, carrying sacks or baskets of food.
The Rooster, likewise, is not exactly a servicable inn. The proprietor/mayor/sheriff introduces himself as Big Burt when the group enters the large common room. He is a very large human who has seen much of what was likely muscle go soft in his old age. His beard is thick, bushy, and black, in much the way that his gleaming scalp is not.
"Please, come on in," he says in an infectiously friendly voice. "Sit down and relax. It's a little earlier than we're accustomed for serving ale, but we won't let that get in the way." Big Burt sends a skinny young girl, barely a teenager, away from her job scrubbing floors to fetch tankards of ale.
"If'n your looking for accomodations, I have two rooms I'll rent out for three silver a night each. They're small, but clean. Otherwise, you're welcome to sleep on the floor of the commons for three coppers a head. Not the nicest arrangement, but a small cut above sleeping out in the rain and bugs."
Tankards are passed around - modest quality made better by a week on horseback. Big Burt sends the girl back to the kitchens to hurry along the day's stew and to scare up some bread and cheese.
"So," he says, seating himself at your table, "what brings a strange group such as yourselves to Sharden?"
