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The westering sun was a hand's breadth above the flat horizon. The quarterstaff fights were nearing their conclusion as the folk of Scarburg cheered the contestants on.
Those in the baker could hear the cheering and clash of wood against wood over the sound of hissing fat and boiling kettles.
They could not hear the quiet steps, nor see the walker coming out of the woods south of Scarburg, onto the road, and toward the encampment slowly making of itself a settlement.
The walker was hooded and wore a long cloak. Their color could not be told, for both had seen much wear, and seemed a smattering of gray and brown and green all mixed together. His feet were booted in old brown leather. A long gray beard wagged back and forth with each step, and the walker's staff stumped to the ground every other step. His face was hidden, so it could not be seen whether he smiled or frowned.
Then he stopped and looked up. His eyes were bright and sharp beneath bristling brows. He sniffed deer acooking on the breeze and his mouth turned in a small smile.
He started walking again, now bent a little more in the manner of an old man. He entered the encampment and made his way to the baker where he found a woman past her middle years sweating over her cooking.
"Good day, my good woman. Could you spare a scrap of meat for a hungry traveler?"
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