Gin couldn't really describe the scent. It was a little bit sweet and a little bit savory. Two separate scents, maybe? The wind wasn't blowing very hard, so it had to be something nearby and he was definitely going to investigate. Hopefully it wasn't the baker in the village. His prices were ridiculous and his eye was sharp. Even a skilled thief by the likes of Gin got caught in his shop and he didn't have enough coin to even think of spending it on bread or cakes when it could be spent on ale later.
He paused, bent down and grabbed a handful of fluffy snow and tossed it in the air. The snowflakes, as expected blew away from his face toward the village proper. That meant the village and the baker were upwind from him. He wasn't a good tracker by any means, but living in the woods, surviving on his own and learning to not be seen or caught taught him a few things.
Especially when the potential for his next home-cooked meal was on the line.
Also, considering he sometimes gave off the scent of cookies, learning what was upwind and what was downwind helped him many times avoid too many nosy questions or worse, being eaten.
So if the baker and the village proper were upwind, then whatever smelled so delicious he was already salivating was somewhere behind him. How had he passed it by without smelling it before? Gin turned around and started curiously backtracking. Somewhere, in some cottage he has passed, someone was baking... something. Something delicious that, if he was lucky, would be sitting just on the other side of cracked opened shutters.
It was possible. It may have been winter, but winter was in its final push so the days were warmer. Warm enough that many sought out the fresh air and opened their shutters to air out their homes. Soon the snow would be gone and soon Gin's fears about the tracks he left in the snow would also dissipate.
He sneaked and stalked until he saw the open shutters. Only open a few inches. Resting on the sill were a number of small pastries in pie shape. The smell was overwhelmingly good. Was it mincemeat? Oh, Gin hoped it was mincemeat. He took in a deep, happy breath; looked around cautiously while tugging his gloves out of his pockets and then put the gloves on. Hopefully whoever had baked the pastries was inside and oblivious to his presence. He needed the gloves in case they were unbearably hot.
Just one, he only needed one. Keeping himself pressed out of view as much as possible, one hand cautiously extended toward the nearest pastry.