I have taken a room at the Prancing Pony inn. I do not know how long I might stay, or how long my business will keep me here. It is a charming little village, despite its wariness of outsiders. Cormac has remained outside the walls, and I am glad. There are moments where he will listen and obey, but they are few.
The inn is comfortable enough. It is rather large, with plenty of bedrooms, quite a few nooks and crannies where one can seek solitude and quiet by a fire without being troubled. And a large common room, of course, though when it is bustling and noisy, I'd prefer to avoid it. The food is adequate. Simple, comfortable fare.
I had a woman approach me the other evening as I sat and ate some stew. She simply sat down and started talking to me. Why do people do this? I would never dream of doing such a thing to a person sitting alone. It seems to be much more common among the women. Do they assume I wish company and mindless chatter because I am also a woman? I stood and moved away from her. Perhaps I offended her. I don't know, and I don't intend to fret over it. I have weightier matters on my mind.
The news that I received some months ago is still so heavy in my thoughts. I cannot stop thinking on it. I find myself pondering the reason for my very existence. One's identity is inextricably linked to one's purpose in the world. When you are stripped of the former, how can you possibly discover the latter? I do not wish to become a brooder. I am already too inclined to sit and think for hours on end. I couldn't tell you the last time I laughed. It was likely at some antic of Cormac's.
A man has been following me. I first saw him while sitting with a drink in the inn. He stood against the wall, looking strangely weary, with another man nearby. A friend, I assume. A third man joined them. The first was dressed in drab grey colours and was hooded like myself. I have seen these tall, hooded men in the wilds and on the road occasionally. One shouldn't assume much, though, so he may or may not be such a man. I could hear bits of their conversation, but I do not now recall what made me look at him. It was as if I heard something, but I don't know what I heard; that sounds mad, I know. His eyes met mine at the same moment, and I saw his lips parted in surprise, and then he lowered his head. It was very puzzling. I retreated to one of the cozier rooms in the back of the inn to be alone and away from curious eyes. And perhaps away from my own curiosities, for what good has ever come of it, for me? The less I notice my fellow men, the easier my existence.
The man followed me. Well, he sent his friend ahead of him, in a sort of adolescent boys' game, I think. I was not offended. They both claimed that the man thought to have known me as an old acquaintance, though how true this is, I cannot say. If I thought that anything about me was charming, and that this is what drew their attention, I might be flattered, and my heart warmed. I think, perhaps, it was intrigue more than anything else. And I can forgive that. The Hooded Man was polite and apologetic. I do not regret our brief conversation.
But I saw him again next day. I passed through the west-gate of the town, for I had left my satchel hanging behind the fence along the hedge, safely out of sight. Luckily, I was stopped by Cormac, who came from the fields to greet me, else I might have led the Hooded Man straight to my cache. As I paused to say hello to my brown-eyed friend, the man came along behind me and spoke. He warned that the townspeople might slay Cormac if given the chance. I know this is a risk. He is an enormous animal, quite intimidating on sight, for his head comes clear up to my chest, though he is perfectly gentle with me.
The man parted from me in a perplexing manner, by simply walking past me without any sort of farewell. I had to smile inwardly, though, for it is quite the same way I would likely take my leave of someone. I walked the fields a bit afterward, and stopped to fill my waterskin after retrieving my satchel, and I saw the man. At first I was not sure it was him, but now I have little doubt. A tall, dark shape, fleeting in the swaying grasses and among the ancient trees. Here one moment and gone the next, so much so that it would be easy to doubt and easier still to say I had imagined it.
I don't know what intrigues him so. Does he think I am a threat? I am no threat to anyone, unless they serve the darkness that grows in the east. I know my hood draws stares sometimes. I care little for what people think. I am not trying to be mysterious or interesting. I am not hiding from the law or from enemies. My reasons for concealing myself are my own. Is it too much to ask that I pass through this life unseen? That the grim loneliness in my soul burdens me, and only me? I do not wish to bring it upon anyone else.
