as he waited patiently for the knight to finish whatever he
was doing.
Now, all that time, the itinerant folklorist thought he
was unobserved, so he was startled when the knight, not so
much as lifting his head or moving a muscle, spoke up in a
deep, though tired, voice:
“What do you want?”
“Oh! Pardon me,” said Aril Witherwind, stepping
ahead, bent forward as if he were bowing, though, in fact,
he was merely carrying his heavy tome. “I didn’t mean to
interrupt anything. Only, if you are done, I would like to
speak with you.”
“I am in meditation.”
“So you are. But perhaps you could return to it in a
moment,” suggested Aril. “This will not take long.”
The old knight sighed deeply. “Actually, you’re not
interrupting much,” he said, his body slumping from its
disciplined pose. “I no longer have the concentration I once
did.”
“Then we can talk?”
The knight began to rise to his feet, though it clearly took
some effort. “Ach, it’s getting so I can’t distinguish between
the creaking in my armor and the creaking in my bones.”
“I believe it was your armor that time,” said Aril with a
smile.
At his full height, the knight indeed proved to be a very
tall man, as tall as Aril, who himself, when he did not carry
his book, was a gangly fellow. And when the knight faced
him fully, Aril got goosebumps because engraved upon the
knight’s tarnished breastplate was a faint rose, the famous
symbol of his order.
“On the other hand, I do not feel much like talking,”
said the knight sullenly, walking right past the half-elf and
seating himself upon a large rock where he leaned back
against another and gazed languidly up at the blue sky and
white clouds bracketed by the opposing walls of the valley.
“I am a man of action only.”
“I quite understand,” said Aril, following. “But it does
seem to me you are at the moment – um – between actions.
The thing is, I am a folklorist – ”
“Aril Witherwind.”
“Yes, that’s right. You’ve heard of me? I’m flattered.”
The knight squinted at the gangly blond person with
the large book upon his back. “You are indeed a strange
one.”
“It takes all kinds,” said Aril Witherwind, again with a
smile. “In any case, you know why I’m here.”
“I do not wish to talk.”
“Oh, but you must make yourself. A knight such as you
surely has many wonderful tales of derring-do, bravery.
Why, this may be one of your few opportunities to set the
record straight about your order before the world forgets.”
The knight appeared unmoved at first. But then, despite
himself, he tugged contemplatively at the tip of his long
moustache. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “if I do think about it
– ”
“Yes, do think about it!” said Aril Witherwind as he
hurried to another, smaller rock, where he sat down, his
bony knees pulled up. He brought forth his book and
propped it open on his legs. He then took from his pouch a
quill and inkwell, placing the inkwell on the ground.
“You’re a pushy one,” said the knight, arching an
imperious eyebrow.
“These days, a folklorist must be,” said Aril. “Now
then, first thing’s first: What is your name?”
“Warrex,” said the knight growing ever more
interested. He even sat up. “Barryn Warrex.”
“Is Warrex spelled with one ‘r’ or two?”
“Two.”
“Fine. Now what do you have for me? Some tale, I bet,
of epic battles and falling castles, of heroic missions – ”
“No,” said the knight thoughtfully, again pulling on his
moustache, “no, I don’t think so.”
“Oh? Then perhaps a tale of minotaur slaying or a duel
with some fierce ogre – ”
“No, no, not those either, though I’ve done both.”
“Then, by all means, you must tell of them! People one
day will want to read such knightly adventures – ”
“Please!” snapped Barryn Warrex, his old milky eyes
flashing in anger. “I have no patience for this unless you
will listen to the story that I WANT to tell!”
“Of course, of course,” said Aril, closing his eyes in