The Burnt Man

A hundred roofs and chimneys, highlighted by the rising moon ensnare my eyes as the west-gate locks behind me. The road ahead becomes strangely compelling, climbing eastwards through the town, leading my eyes to the looming Menelvagor glittering in the night sky, guarding ceaselessly over the homes of these men. The rustic air is strong here as I wander up the paved street and processions of creaking wood and sharp snaps follow my strides from the many window shutters eitherside. The Swordsman becomes my only companion along this lonely road.

I invite her to remove all her gear, to place it all on the table beside me. Her eyes widen as she realises I speak in her language. Well enough; though each slippery syllable is bitter in my mouth, thick as ashes. I am an erudite Man, not a slack jawed fool. She needs to understand.

The note hisses, crumples in the fire. Breathe deep, fortunate man.

And what fortune comes to me; exultation rising, uncurling deep in my belly. I am a boy again, I need to steady my hands to write, shivering in anticipation. I am chosen. I had heard it had been taken. But that it is given to me ... I am exaulted, raised ... its is known there is no other like me.

The great power of the world rises steadily. Even fickle fate must bow to the inevitable lord, as a whore to the whim of her master. My little linnet brings me a map, found by one of her swains in the old north lands. How childlike these grown men and women of the horselands are, for all their fair flaxen stature, unable to read or form any letters. It is quite charming.

I hear from my sources that there has been a murder of a halfling in the inn at Bree. Most distasteful. It appears that agents of the northern rising are implicated in what can only be a fumbled fiasco. Entering a public place... killing a halfling. A halfling! The killing of a halfling is as fear-inducing as a pair of children scrumping apples in a neighbours garden. For shame. Killing is the tool of those with little wit for anything else. Useful, but only rarely.

Three little birds. How charming.

My golden-haired Gyth, a little Linnet, a Nightingale. A sweet voice, sweet temper and as temptingly innocent as daisy.