He reached a hand out from his heavy travel robe and dug about in his rather heavy pack, by feel, he could tell everything and anything which was in there... A small drum, covered in a thick section of leather for protection. A small wrapped bundle of seed cakes which were given to him by one of the little folk in return for help with mending his fence, bone charms, a sharpening stone, and there it was. A brass cup, perfect for heating water by he fire.
Folke sat there and peered at his little brass cup for some time, not urged on by the fast moving time, as most others were. It brought a fond memory from one of his many visits to Esgaroth, the home of this particular cup. He had traded a fair carving for this, a wooden bowl for a brass cup. His bowl had been carved from a piece of old oak, and it had blunted many tools in its making. Owls and foxes sat around it, their ornately carved heads looking to the next, all the way around the piece of art. The merchant had been quite taken with it, and Folke sought something practical, ending up with this old beaten up cup, he smiled. From a distance he may have seemed like some strange creature, swathed in robes, with matted hair and sat beside a small and meagre brook. The brook was criss-crossed with roots and brambles and many small stone and shrub dwelt in it, he leaned to his side, reaching down for water with the brass cup, which he placed next to his small fire of fallen sticks and salvaged standing dead wood. After a wait, the water in the cup simmered, and he retrieved a small wooden box. Opening it revealed a mixture of powdered and ground herbs, he took what most would call half a pinch and dropped it into the cup. A crooked smile creased his scarred face, and the flames danced across it.
Have you ever noticed how the roots of a great old tree seem to run along like rivers? They start from the same place and kind of, split off, but instead of spreading water across the land, they gather it from the dirt.
Have you ever looked long enough at your own hands long enough,that they no longer seem to be your own?
Have you ever looked up to the sky, and then down to the ground, as slow as you possibly could, just to see how long it could take? Folke did that day, and he did many more things, sat beneath that great oak tree and beside that brook.
He made himself another two, or was three more cups?
Folke awoke hours, or was it days later? Nonetheless, he made sure to remind himself to thank the herbalist.
