[Carrûn]

A sultry dusk was falling across the plains when the weathered stranger strode into view of the Inn. He came from the Far East this time, skirting through the brown lands from the Sea of Rhûn. Word had reached him that the one who he had simply called "the boy" had been traveling through those largely unknown regions. His reputation with both the pen and song had grown. Awyrgan found him, but the boy was now a man though his age should suggest otherwise. The impish sparkle in his eye had been replaced with a solemn stare and his songs and sketches were of innocence lost.

The man sighed. Why do the young pass so quickly into the old?. He could not help but feel a slight twinge of guilt. The boy was never his by name, but he had always felt a sense of responsibility since he found him curled in a butcher's wagon near Bree. The last time the two had met the child had playfully kicked him in the shins. Now there was a firm handshake in its place. Still, the past was already written and all one could do was move on. So Awyrgan had, just like he always did.

From a distance there was not much to notice about him. Shorter than many of his race, he walked with the stride of a man who could travel at a great pace but was content to lazily stroll. There was evidence of a former spring in his step but it had faded into a steady and persistent plod. His broad frame was covered almost completely in a black cloak that weather had slowly faded into a murky grey. The years had been hard on his face, and scars melded with wrinkles that should be years in the distance. He paused to tighten the laces on a boot and as he bent the gleam of dark, tightly bound chain mail was briefly visible.

As he walked through the darkening streets he hummed softly to himself in ominous tones. The tune had no meter or melody other than the steady, pained beating inside his chest. He chuckled softly as he thought of the tales and titles that followed and preceded him. Awyrgan, the lost Ranger. Unmatched tracker and teller of tales which you would not believe except for the man who was telling them. A swordsman who was just as content to stab his enemies in the back as he was to take them on in direct combat. Others it seems, know me better than I do myself he thought with a bit of irony. Dark, yellow-green eyes shone brightly from beneath his hood, both frightening and alluring as was the wizened smirk on his face. Reaching the door he paused and straightened his back. Well-worn bones and self-treated ligaments popped with solemn satisfaction. Knocking mud off his boots as almost an afterthought he opened the door and glided in with the evening breeze.

The scene that greeted him was a typical bustle of longtime patrons and newcomers. Avoiding the crowd he moved quickly to a corner by the fire. Undoubtedly some marked his movements, but many missed. Seating himself, he straightened his legs and retrieved his pipe. After working the stem over in his mouth for a time he lit it, and leaned back against the wall. Some of the smoke caught in his hood, and his eyes stung. Ignoring the involuntary tear he sat quietly and observed the proceedings.