An old man, his feet tripping over his flowing white beard, trudged up the road towards the White Horse Inn. His breath wheezed, ragged breeches ended at his knotted knees, he shivered at the breath of a mild breeze. He leaned upon a wooden cane, a twisted one that wobbled when he walked, and he wiped his nose occasionally with an embroidered hanky. His fingers were stained with blackish ink, and his fingers traced letters in the air. As he plodded along in the dusty street, he muttered to himself, as if he was talking with a friend that was not there. Across his left eye, there was a morbid patch, a banner of rougher times, while the right one was a shimmering, limpid blue that stared, unblinking, at the horizon.
Upon his shoulders sprawled a golden cat with clouded golden eyes and a mangled paw. His tail served as a scarf to save the fragile man from the choking fingers of the spring time wind that searched for warmth to kill and breath to steel. Once every two minutes, the man’s hand would absently stroke the graying fur and the cat, Goldwine by name, would like the gnarled limb with a pale pink tongue.
With a little smile that showed his yellowed face and creased his face with more wrinkles than before, he pushed the door open and blinked at the bustling people. He tried to remember what special event the party would celebrate, but he couldn’t quite remember it. But something hovered around his memory, like flaming balls falling just outside his vision.
He eased himself into his chair and took out a crinkling piece of parchment. From another pocket, he pulled a crystal bottle with a narrow, urn-like neck filled with murky, blackish ink. Taking a slim, goose feather, he dipped the quill into the ink and, with a soft melodious scratching sound, wrote the name Taliesin .
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