Join Date: Jan 2008
Posts: 50,136
The boreal winds had not yet descended in full force on gentle Pogglesworth, and the November days were yet warm enough that most of the humble hamlet's denizens spent much of the daylight hours outside, enjoying what warranted to be the last easy, pleasant days for several moons. Soon the snows would come, they knew, and the village would be isolated from the outside world, the passes blocked and the valley become its own small, self-contained world. But now all was easy, and the populace took full advantage.
Too, there were travelers. Word had spread that the town was not at present beset by one of its periodic plagues of werewolves, and citizens of far off lands were to be seen at every turn, passing through or stopping for a while and the now-famous pub.
In this atmosphere of relaxation, a strange figure appeared — but one that was familiar to all who had lived at all long in Poggleworth. It was that of an unusual man, neither old nor young, neither life-long resident nor newcomer. Many knew something of him, few knew him well — but all could tell by the way that he carried himself that he was knowledgeable of many things.
The sage made his way through the town square, past the great and horrible hanging tree, and onward to the hillock that overlooked the town. There, ignoring the Percherons that grazed on the last of the season's grass and the occasional chough that croaked overhead, he spread out his blanket on a small rock, and sat down... and waited.
The motionless silhouette might have indicated little to those who were new to this part of the world, but to those more long of tooth its meaning was clear: The sage would answer questions now. Questions from anyone, about anything: about his many fields of expertise, his likes and dislikes, his strange and varied history, and even his innermost secrets. He would answer the questions as best he could, until there were no more.
The well is open.
