As far as archers went, the man was by no means impressive. He hated sticky jungle heat, he couldn't stand the dry deserts, and even the magical meadows surrounding Geffen were teeming with biting midges and huge pupae. That, and his grudge against the one Poring that ate all his arrows was still simmering like a pot under an Archmage's fire.
He looked away from his book and saw a small boy staring at him. The man sat up from his bed on the bench. "Can I help you?"
The boy fidgeted and averted his eyes. "My- my mom says you're a disgrace."
He smiled. The boy was one who frequented his favorite haunt, ears always open for more of his tales. "A disgrace? Why does she say that?"
"You're an adventurer, right?" the man nodded, "So you should be working for the King... at least, that's what my mom says."
He shrugged and ruffled the boy's hair. "Tell me something. Would a wanderer walk anywhere if he was required to stay on one knee?
"Um... no?" the boy asked, unsure if the serious expression on the man's face meant his answer was the right one.
"And would a wordsmith write anything if he was required to say only what someone wanted to say?"
The man's expression didn't change. "No...?"
A gentle smile slowly spread across his face, like an amateur painter nervously brushing her canvas for the first time. "Then, as a wandering wordsmith, would it be right for me to stay on one knee and say what someone wanted to say?"
"N-no," the boy whispered. The man sat up and patted the boy's shoulder. There was an air of understanding in his look, from the messy auburn hair and the lazy, green eyes, that assuaged the boy's fear.
"Exactly. You go tell your mother that, alright? Tell her that a wandering wordsmith is a disgrace, only when he has no stories to tell. When you get back, I'll tell you about the time I visited Morroc."
"Yes sir!" the boy hurried off, smiling proudly. The wandering wordsmith chuckled, lay down, and opened his book once more.
