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Hooded and cloaked, the man walked with a pronounced limp and a seemingly drunken swagger. His shoulders slumped, matching his posture, and giving lie to his alert eyes. In the shadows of the late night none saw his passing as he made his way swiftly, leaving no mark upon the soft earth. He had left his exhausted mount a mile or so away to rest as he trekked the last leg of his journey on foot. Why, he thought, do the shortest trips feel like an Age?
He walked as fast as he could with his adopted gate. Passing a small house, a pair of gleaming eyes met him. Kneeling, he appeased the hungry dog with a piece of dried meat. Tail wagging, the mutt disappeared from his sight. He continued, reaching the inn. Lights glowed through the closed shutters of many windows. He made his way to the door, glancing paranoically behind him. Lifting the handle, he pushed. Glaring at the unmoving door, he whispered curses at those who bar doors against the night. Swift as wind and light as moonlight he had traveled after the encounters, opting for secrecy. It used to be simpler that way, he told himself. Now, his need for anonymity battled with his need for haste.
Taking a deep breath, he steeled his bruised fists and pounded on the doors. Screaming against the pain, he cried for admittance. Silently begging forgiveness of those asleep, he continued to beat on the heavy doors. Quiet tears ran down his pale cheeks and into his scruffy, unshaved beard, as freshly scabbed cuts broke open upon his assault. "You must admit me!" he screamed. His hood fell back to reveal mussed auburn hair that nearly covered a long, purpling bruise. "Please!" Degas screamed. "You must open the doors!"
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