Open As I Walked Out One Mid-Noniruth Morn

Dusk cracked a wicked eye over the Kalma foothills, yawning shadows over sparse woodland drawn barren under autumn's kiss. The sun, dubbed Ko in this corner of Khurun, peered over a small traveler's waystation, a caravanserai far from the imperial highways that promised safety for northward travel.

This far from the legion controlled throughways lent credence to rumors of banditry and rebellion, but on this particular eve a casual look around dispelled them: travelers, refugees, weary expatriates seeking escape from the tyranny of the Arshakan Empire, and a handful of mercenaries and horse-bearing folk that kept a measured distance from the others. An eclectic company that kept quiet conversation among themselves.

Within the group, perched on a log and warming his toes at a fire, sat the graying figure of a man in fresh travel wear. Caligin by name, he massaged at his calves with a soft groan as he kept his own company. After a time, he cracked open a leatherbound journal, the opening pages of which were filled with preamble and the draft of a table of contents, and began to write:

Setting aside his pen, he blew on the journal gingerly to aid in its drying. He made no effort to hide his scribblings, inviting the curious gazes of several fellow travelers. This far he had planned, intending to speak at length of his vision: a great journey, a fresh start, his dreams of one day laying finger to what must surely be the pristine walls of Cloud's Keep. Yet, as the embers settled around the cookfires and the scent of stewed goat overtook the caravanserai, he found himself instead at his belly's whim.

He wandered over to the group manning an iron cookpot atop a bed of embers and cleared his throat.

"I've some peppercorn in my satchel," he said, "and a sprig of sage. Oh, a soft cheese too, with a bitter rind. Perhaps I could beggar a bowl of that lovely stew in exchange?"

Faine watched their charge from a safe distance, blending seamlessly with the rest of the band of weary travelers. The man looked harmless enough. Bookish and already showing signs of greying, scratching away at his journal with an obliviousness exclusive to scholars. Caligin wasn’t old by any standard, but too many days sequestered indoors while hunched over tomes will make a person age well beyond their years. He oozed that telltale aura of academia. It practically smothered him.

Perhaps, Faine mused, they could use that to their advantage.

The scribbling took quite a while. Faine resorted to alternating weight on each foot, pressing one heel down and then the other, just to keep their blood flowing. It was a brisk, clear night. The merrily crackling fire helped some, but the Imperial spy kept to its edges all the same.

Truthfully, they were likely overdoing it on the caution. But Caligin had proven himself the unpredictable sort. After years of faithful service, he’d simply up and left without so much as a word. How long he’d stewed on this decision was anyone’s guess. There had been no warning signs, no trace of dissent or unhappiness leading up to that point. At least, none discernible to the likes of Faine. In fact, the only remotely useful thing they were able to learn before departure was that the man was quite fond of soup.

So it was with great patience that they carefully and calmly hovered along the periphery, waiting until the last possible second to move in. They had to hedge their bets. There was no telling if the man would suddenly change his mind, and he was such a mundane creature that Faine found him rather hard to read. They were used to fox eyed politicians and silver tongued diplomats. This frumpy scribbler was not within their usual purview of expertise.

After some time, Caligin began to lose steam, his motions growing less feverish. He may have even sighed a little sigh as he added the flourishes to his last words. It was then that Faine set their first plan in motion. They moved, swiftly, to the handful of travelers cooking a great big pot of stew. One of them was a weathered old woman who went by the name of Hildi. Smiling their most disarming smile, Faine dipped their head towards the matriarch in a show of respect and held out their arm. They were, as usual, dressed sensibly for the occasion in dark, neutral shades. But they made sure the length of sleeve they offered was dust-free, their dark brown cloak hanging behind their elbow.

“You look like you’ve earned a rest, madam,” Faine coaxed, voice low and gentle. “I’m here to relieve you of your post, as promised.”

Hildi laughed heartily, and to Faine’s relief she put the ladle down and took their arm in her brown, leathery hands. “You’re a sweet one, deary. And with such good manners too. Your mama raised you well, for you to care about this old sack of bones.”

Faine’s smile turned sheepish and they shook their head, hiding the flash of annoyance that rippled through them. Their mother had, in fact, raised them to be a weapon, but old Hildi need not know that. Instead, they held her hands as they helped her settle down onto a low stool. “Nonsense, Hildi. A sack could never cook us all such delicious stew.”

She laughed some more at that before pulling out a pipe and beginning her ritual of packing it. Satisfied, Faine turned back to take up Hildi’s place behind the pot. They had only just picked up the ladle and began to stir when Caligin ambled forward in high spirits.

Faine considered him for a moment before pulling down their hood. They weren’t certain whether Caligin would recognize them, but if he didn’t, he would understand who they were soon enough.

“I will accept the peppercorn and the sage, good sir. Though I will not add it to Hildi’s creation without her permission. Here, let me pour us each a bowl.” And that Faine did, their motions steady and careful, not a single drop spilled from start to finish. Upon handing Caligin his bowl, they stepped around the pot with one of their own and gestured toward a fallen log.

“Please, join me. I have an interesting proposition I would like to share.”

With a quick flick of the wrist, they also tossed a coin to one of the older children nearby, who caught it greedily before loping up to the pot of stew. Hildi just chuckled, saying nothing.

A pipe, yes... he noted the woman, Hildi, and that short-stemmed wooden pipe packed with a rich smelling leaf. It suited her, suited the ambiance of this hillside caravanserai. Smoke from the camp and cookfires set out in little whorls woven with the stew's aroma, parallelled marvelously by the scent of the pipe smoke. He was watching her light it, a tight bed of cinder that lit up from the edges of her lips.

That's what he needed for this journey. He could see himself with one, its stem stained black from lacquer or paint or whatever it was they used in its construction. Standing, leaning against something precarious, idling through the pages of a tome acquired second-hand at a local thrift. Yes. The imagery was perfect.

His fingers itched to make note of it, to jot it down in his journal, but his hands were suddenly filled with a bowl of that wonderful stew. It jostled him from that momentary reverie, and he smiled with sheepish surprise.

"Ah, thank you," he said. "You are too kind. Of course I'll join you, of course."

He found himself moved, shepherded at the newcomer's pace, to another log on the far side of one of the fires. While not a quiet place, it was uninhabited by the company of others.

"Oh, I should have said but my name is Caligin. Do you often proposition strangers?" That last he tried to smile with, but it came out more a nervous giggle.

Hmm, he was a talker when he felt nervous. Unsurprising, though noteworthy all the same.

Faine waited till Caligin took his seat first before following suit, settling beside him at a polite distance. They had taken a spoonful of hot stew when the scholar asked his question. The stew almost went down the wrong way, but they managed somehow not to choke. In all likelihood, Caligin had not meant any ill by what he said. He was talking just to talk, judging from the nervous laugh that followed. Unfortunately, Faine had just returned from an investigation involving local brothels, and the timing could not have been more egregious.

"That depends," they answered after a moment of recovery, "on how interesting the stranger is. And you, my friend, don't seem to be the usual sort of character traveling these roads."

To further prove their point, they glanced around at the other travelers lingering by the fire. They appeared to all be more of less of the same humble origins. Anyone with more means, like merchants or nobility, would have their own carriages and armed guards. And anyone with more experience would never risk sharing a resting space with the less fortunate.

"And by that I do mean that you seem the educated sort. May I inquire about what you were writing earlier? You seemed quite engrossed. I admit that that was what first piqued my curiosity."

This was, of course, a lie. But Faine figured that if there was a way to peacefully extrapolate useful information before laying on the bad news, then it would be worth doing so now.