Lonesome Road

See this now, see it very well. A lone wanderer dressed in ebony, and traveling beneath the stars, his destination is lost somewhere, at some time...

Now the wanderer goes by many different names, known for many different things, but where he goes only his shadow follows. There are some who would claim knowledge to the existence of his kind, people cursed to wander for all eternity if only to see nothing but change. But like the seasons, the world shifts and turns, kingdoms sprout forth like the sapling of trees and the flakes of winter. The course of things and happenstance are frequent, in the end all are bound together like the strings of fate.

Fate itself had a strange way of binding itself to the living. Most people consider a significant event to be a buildup of circumstance, even the result of pure coincidence and chance; the truth is everything is connected in one way or another, be it a grain of sand to a worn copper coin. It is known that there is magic to this world, some of which return an object to its creator, others searching for its true bearer. Consider this then: Can fate truly be the illusion of coincidence? Or is fate the result of consequence, waiting for an opportunity to present itself?

For it is true, that in this world few people have control over their fate, and those that do walk a lonesome road. Theirs are a life that inevitably results only in a lonely death, like an abandoned sword in a battlefield. Not even an immortal can outlast the stand of time, even should they live to see the ending of the world, and in the end what then? The silence of the grave, not even a memory, remains. There is courage in accepting such truth, and one that matters little to those that are born to the way of the sword. Most tend to remember not a face or a memory, but the legacy left behind.

All the clamor and fuss are gathered in the tavern here, tonight. In the corner, a group of sellswords. This is a pirate. That is a thief. The robed man could well be a wizard, whose colors are unknown to me. Perhaps even a con-artist, a trickster, even a gypsy. One does well to be wary of such things.

There is no place for heroes and villains in this world. Only the presence of giants and men, where magic fills the void of imagination, changing reality to better suit certain faiths. The tavern was not here years prior, in fact the smell of the hamlet is fresh so to speak; pig manure, filth, and rubbish are prevalent in most towns and cities. The smell of life, as foul as death, speaks much of a city. This tavern was young, its walls fresh and clean, though there is talk of stronger paints developed far to the west.

Roads are like the only timeless remains of the old world, the lifeblood of society, and on such note the grounds for fate itself. At a fork in the road, I cannot help but wonder as to where each path would lead, what fate has in store.

Once, I came across a lone elk that lifted its head from a brush, no better than arm's reach from me. Perhaps I have become more silent without my knowledge, better that I save a quarrel or two for that purpose...not that I was truly fond of bolts and arrows. When I returned, the brush was gone and perhaps memory faltered when I learned of its designated clearance by a farming committee. Upon the third time I returned, perhaps a year or two later, the forest itself was gone and had since transformed into that of a vast stretch of farmland.

The lonesome road is one that is familiar to a vagabond. Only the sights and sounds are new to them, ever changing in ways beyond the wisdom of sages and the imagination of poets. Where once a tower stood, now only a series of ruins remain, and in place of those ruins are the vines that engulf them as a whole. Most people are not fond of change, but on a long enough basis one becomes familiar to them.

A part of me wandered, beneath the hearth of a campfire, as to what the others thought of such things. No doubt some would embrace it, others loathe to accept and destroy what they find; doubtlessly there would be some who would be part of it entirely. It is not by heroism or villainy that brings change, but the result of fate itself, even mild coincidence.

I doubt there is a place for me to settle. The world is far too vast and infinite to simply resign to the winter of time, and what better than to travel, discover all that has changed in my wake? I recall briefly a peculiar moment when I came across a broken caravan, somewhere in a stretch of forest. At first they seemed wary, but when effortlessly I fixed their wheel they proved more receiving. Somehow before I left they provided me with a small bauble, that of a wooden crescent moon.

That bauble has since been lost to me. Somehow in my travels, perhaps in the midst of countless duels and conflicts, it may have slipped. Or perhaps it was given as a gift, not bearing any holdings beyond what I carry. Now it seemed likely that it would never find its way back to me, save through memory, and even odd moments of nostalgia.

That is, of course, until the memory fades with time. It seemed like a trivial incident, one that held little meaning to its presence prior...but sometimes, just sometimes fate has a funny way of working. Sometimes the smallest of things find their way back, like the colors of magic, staring at you from the windows of another place. A store window, and to be exact, in a place called Eldarus.

So now you see, the changes upon the lonesome road does not always result in losses, not even when the world has moved on. For though I never recalled their names, perhaps this strange bauble is tied to them in some peculiar way. In this world, it is true, that the smallest coincidences may very well be the result of consequence.

Travel well, my friend.

~ Gabriel Faith.