A merry old soul is he, jumps brook, picks herb and sips at leafen blackberry tea. The truth of the matter was, he was getting old, so very old. His perfectly greying hair, his wrinkled skin and creaking bones ached after the morning's hike, morale, not that he would be so careless to admit, was at an all time low.
He laid down his cloak, beaten by the rain and stained by the grass, threaded by thorn and frayed by the road. Setting his old sword down even older than he, he settled his hands on a log, felled no doubt by the thunderous weather thrown down from the Misties. Taking the hunting knife which loitered, tucked into a makeshift sheath upon his belt, he went about cutting through the log, encouraging the edge down and through with the tapping of a stick. The day went on and the old wanderer, clothed in the rustic hues of the wood made himself a place to dwell, for the night or for the week, even he himself did not know. A rickety shelter of the wood of hazel and ash and beech leaf to help keep the insects away, this would be the palace of the charcoal burner, for however long...
