At least put some shoes on.
You rifle through your sylladex for the least gross shoes and equip them. Then, at your host’s insistence, you turn over all your dirty clothes. She knocks on another door with her arms full of bloody, stained clothes, and her son opens it, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Our guest needs to go to the temple, honey. Put on some clothes and take him there and by the time you get back I’ll have breakfast for you.” The kid looks at you and his eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything, just goes to get dressed.