Winter sighed the Mother's snow over the free state of Crorefell. Icy cobbles lined the streets, padded well by boot and hoof traffic, leaving only a smattering of banks on the less traveled paths. An assortment of folk still traveled to spite the weather, the sort who might spit in the face of a new year. For Crorefell, it was said, the common language was profit.
Caligin, the paltry sage that he was, found himself much in disagreement of this philosophy. It bewildered him, conflicted with what he decided was a purity of cause in his free spirited wanderings. At this early evening hour, dressed in thick linens and wool with a dirty fur collared cloak across his shoulders, he stood leaning against a lamppost tugging off a pair of thick mittens with his teeth. He fished around his satchel, pulling out a pen he warmed between fingers that already began numbing to the cold. He spent some time working the viscosity from the ink, readying it to write before he procured another item from his bag.
A sun caked leather journal opened in his hands. Turning page after page of messy scribbles and sketches with a smattering of poetry between, he settled on a blank space and began to write:
The food, from the aromas wafting over the air, must be heavenly. This close to the foot of the Mheara and with such a bevy of rivers flowing freely through, I assume there to be much in the way of fish and perhaps some variety of meat. The vegetables, sadly, appear to be victim of import—which on reflection seems fitting for a city of mercenaries. I might posit that so carnivorous a diet explains the general size of the peoples who pass me on the street.
Closing the journal, he hastened to stash it away in his satchel, nib of his pen clinking against glass as he did. He breathed over his hands, praying that the misty whorls might even suggest a measure of warmth, and rubbed vigorously at his fingers to usher some feeling back into them. They were plump and pink, shaking as they begged him to return them to their cozy nook within the mittens he doffed to write in his journal.
"Right then," he said, a mumble for his own ears, "let's find a redoubt against this chill, perhaps even a meal. Stew, now that sounds lovely."
He started off down the street, slipping on occasion as his boots fell into embankments of snow. The sun made a lazy yawn under the walled horizon by the time he settled on what appeared to be a restaurant. With a sign decorated by a bearded merman holding a pie with its fin, it boasted the only leaded-glazed windows on this particular stretch of road, and a hearth that roared smoke in billows through a high crested chimney. Despite the abundance of options, including busier establishments a few paces away, this one called to Caligin.
He entered the building, shivering involuntarily as a waft of hot air washed over him, and waffled his way over to the bar. There, on the wings of whimsy, he slipped, falling ass first onto the floor before he could even squeak out an order.
Caligin, the paltry sage that he was, found himself much in disagreement of this philosophy. It bewildered him, conflicted with what he decided was a purity of cause in his free spirited wanderings. At this early evening hour, dressed in thick linens and wool with a dirty fur collared cloak across his shoulders, he stood leaning against a lamppost tugging off a pair of thick mittens with his teeth. He fished around his satchel, pulling out a pen he warmed between fingers that already began numbing to the cold. He spent some time working the viscosity from the ink, readying it to write before he procured another item from his bag.
A sun caked leather journal opened in his hands. Turning page after page of messy scribbles and sketches with a smattering of poetry between, he settled on a blank space and began to write:
Crorefell lives up to its reputation. Having arrived with the year's first snows I find my feet perpetually numb and an ache like an echo in the hollow of my bones. The number of smiths and forges present at least the facsimile of warmth, enough to take the edge off in my wanderings.
The food, from the aromas wafting over the air, must be heavenly. This close to the foot of the Mheara and with such a bevy of rivers flowing freely through, I assume there to be much in the way of fish and perhaps some variety of meat. The vegetables, sadly, appear to be victim of import—which on reflection seems fitting for a city of mercenaries. I might posit that so carnivorous a diet explains the general size of the peoples who pass me on the street.
These folk wear scars as openly as a courtesan might her gems and perfumes. Already, not three hours into the first day of my stay, I have come across more cases of missing limbs and eyes (and indeed, even a face robbed of cheeks entire; why, I could see the fellow's teeth from his profile, even as they glistered with what must be gilding or burnished silver). In my prior life I had come across such only in academia, through clinical reports and diagrams presented in lectures that seemed altogether dull by comparison.
Emblazoned on a plaque at the port I entered were the words, 'Better a fool than a coward,' and it has left me in such a reverie reflecting on the hubris of self. Truly, and this pains me to admit, but I am surely a coward in mind and in form. Not once could I attribute a measure of heroism or bravery to my actions, what with my past being colored by administrative work and the trappings of bureaucracy.
I must then surmise that my goal for this sojourn is thus: when I leave this grand city it will be as a Fool.
Closing the journal, he hastened to stash it away in his satchel, nib of his pen clinking against glass as he did. He breathed over his hands, praying that the misty whorls might even suggest a measure of warmth, and rubbed vigorously at his fingers to usher some feeling back into them. They were plump and pink, shaking as they begged him to return them to their cozy nook within the mittens he doffed to write in his journal.
"Right then," he said, a mumble for his own ears, "let's find a redoubt against this chill, perhaps even a meal. Stew, now that sounds lovely."
He started off down the street, slipping on occasion as his boots fell into embankments of snow. The sun made a lazy yawn under the walled horizon by the time he settled on what appeared to be a restaurant. With a sign decorated by a bearded merman holding a pie with its fin, it boasted the only leaded-glazed windows on this particular stretch of road, and a hearth that roared smoke in billows through a high crested chimney. Despite the abundance of options, including busier establishments a few paces away, this one called to Caligin.
He entered the building, shivering involuntarily as a waft of hot air washed over him, and waffled his way over to the bar. There, on the wings of whimsy, he slipped, falling ass first onto the floor before he could even squeak out an order.