Of Faith and Purpose

Pre-dawn wasn't a time for talking, unless it was necessary.  So long as there were logs on the fire, the figures huddled around it weren't going to say a word, preferring instead to watch the flames with bleary eyes.

The ashen corpse of a log caved in, sending up a flurry of sparks as a fresher sacrifice fell toward the ravenous flames.  In that brief moment, the figures' faces were illuminated, or at least what little of their faces they neglected to cover up.  The High Pass was a bitterly cold place, the likes of which few had to endure before taking up arms in defense of the Empire.

But one of the figures was wrapped in a thinner cloak than the others, a cloak that was dyed a drab and uninteresting shade of brown.  His face had been covered only by the shadow of his hood, and in that moment his face lay bare to the elements and to studious eyes.  His skin was ruddy and rough - a common man, for certain, with a weak and freshly-shaven jaw.  With his shoulders hunched forward, his nose pointing out of his face like a blunt beak, and his dark eyes darting restlessly from one place to another, he had the look of a skittish little brown bird.  Watchful, but by no means a majestic eagle.

It was this man who looked here and there under the shadow of his hood, focusing on things in a seemingly random and frivolous order.  He looked at the fire, of course, and the others seated near it, but also toward the carts, and a distant footprint in the snow, and his own clasped hands, and a tent not too far away from the fire's light.

Oh, but the tent, that was what interested him the most, and his eyes went there the most, though anyone trying to keep track would have become tired before they figured it out.

The early glimmer of dawn was just beginning to give the scene a touch of life when the occupant of the tent revealed himself.  He was tall and strong and elegant, and carried himself like a man who knew what others saw in him.  With his gaze turned toward the warming horizon, he smoothed his rich black hair with one hand and smiled, almost knowingly, toward the sun.  It seemed as if the sun smiled back at him, too, as the early morning light shone brilliantly on his intricate and brightly-gilded platemail.  The man certainly didn't blaze with the sun's intensity, but he intended to get as close to that lofty goal as he could.

It was enough to draw the attention of all three figures huddled around the fire, a fact that seemed to warm the armored man on the inside as the sun attempted to warm him on the outside.  He flashed a charming, well-practiced smile before turning and setting foot toward whatever glorious thing it was that awaited him.

Prayers, the man in the thin brown cloak thought.  He's off for his morning prayers.  Won't be gone for long, but long enough.

With that, he rose, the cloak brushing against the hard-packed snow as he made his own pre-planned path, winding around the carts so any curious eyes would lose track of him as he slipped around the back of the tent and through the flap, with all the confidence of someone who belonged there.  Simple.

Once inside, the man lowered his hood, revealing a head of limp, brown hair that he quickly covered with a battered brown hat that sat low on his head.  Too big, some had told him, but he liked the fit.  And so began the search.

The armored man - a Knight, to be precise - kept his belongings tidy, though his papers were not arranged in any meticulous order that the man in brown could discern.  First he opened the journal, and squinted at the Knight's loopy and elaborate penmanship for several moments before realizing the words were written in Estalian.  No good.  The man in brown didn't know a word of it, in voice or in ink.  Next he moved to the letters, searching first for those on unusually nice paper.  Those, too, were in Estalian.  No good.

Then something familiar caught the man's eye - a signature line.  Margaret.  Could it be . . . ?

With calloused fingers, the man tugged the letter from the pile and scanned it quickly.  Why, yes, there it was embedded in its words.  "I am Margaret Ritter, bastard child of two nations, Knight of Myrmidia, soldier of the Empire."

Why, he'd only spoken to this Margaret Ritter the other day.  They had spoken of faith, and purpose, and whittling.

With dogged interest, the man in brown began to read the letter in its entirety.  He didn't get far, however, before the cold hand of dread squeezed his heart.  Margaret Ritter wrote of him, as well.

He wasn't particularly subtle when asking Margaret about the Knight whose tent he now huddled in.  There really wasn't much point - she treated his every word with disdain, whether he disguised their meaning or not.  And now, now she was informing his target, even if her words seemed harmless enough.

No doubt this charming Knight had made her an unwitting accomplice.  The man in brown didn't have much time.

He tucked the letter inside his longcoat, where it would be safe until he had a chance to scrutinize it further.  Then off came the oversized hat, up came the hood, and out stepped the cloaked man, out and away, and noticed by no one.

Pensador, he thought to himself as he walked, y'ain't foolin' me.