A series of written thoughts stashed away in a box of parchment, written meticulously and precisely, as if the writer had taken great pains to make their handwriting as legible and clear as possible. The contents of this piece don't focus on one particular event, instead narrating a series of happenings with a tone that ranges from exhasperated to indifferent to finally one where the author appears to feel 'strange' about recent events. There is a large blot of ink on one of the corners.
This has been a strange week of sorts, admittedly. The start was slow and uneventful. It began with me waking up hungover and stumbling about like a newborn foal to regain my bearings. In hindsight, drinking an entire bottle of wine and half a bottle of mead was a terrible idea, but Tylva has yet to betray her word (and I think she takes it very seriously), so perhaps it's simply an ample price to pay for entrusting her with a secret.
Master Hucklebush glared at me when I came into the forge dragging my feet across the floor, and told me to stop fooling around and get to work. I don't know which was worse - the sweltering heat combined with nausea and headache, or the holes that his eyes were digging into the back of my head, judging me for my sorry state. He means well, of course - if he really was a cruel master he would probably have long since thrown me out of his forge - but he had a way of making you feel guilty if you did something he deemed inappropriate, and felt it I did, keenly so.
Then came a letter from Trestlebridge, and his mood quickly worsened.
We were due for an ore shipment from up north, which we would use to create a few crates' worth of building tools and nails to be shipped to Buckland, but according to the letter, the caravan that was due to arrive that day had not been seen after leaving Thornley's farmsteads three nights ago.
This meant that the shipment would be late, and we'd have to push the caravan trip to Buckland back a few weeks. It's suspected that either brigands or orcs might've done the caravan in, but I dearly hope that isn't the case. Master Hucklebush nearly ripped the paper in half out of sheer frustration; He hated delays.
When the day was done, the next few days passed without event, until I happened again upon Mister Loakee at the Prancing Pony, in the company of a merry couple. They were exchanging tales when I came by to say hello, but storytelling didn't last that long, aside from a few tongue-in-cheek comments made by the woman, Ainsleigh, about my hands. The joke still confuses me. Soon it was just me and the other man talking, when a random stranger in a strange mask walked up to us.
It turned out to be Berttle, the queer lad with an accent so heavy even I couldn't understand. Loakee and I quickly started pointing out the sheer absurdity of his disguise (A mask in the middle of a tavern? Really?) and each time we rebuffed his arguments, he got progressively madder and madder, until he drew out a rusty old dagger and started threatening us. Right in the middle of the tavern. With a dagger.
As uneasy as the situation was, one had to wonder what the poor fool was thinking then.
After handling the entire shenanigans with pleasantly surprising tact, Loakee bid me we go on a walk, so I complied and led him to the gardens where Tylva and I had talked a few nights before. We spent most of the night chatting on various subjects - life in general, the absurdity of being threatened by a dagger in the middle of an inn, the idea of birthdays, general Bree-town apathy, my withdrawn nature. It probably would've gone a good few more hours if we continued, but I didn't want to suffer a tongue-lashing by Master Hucklebush, so I told him goodbye and went home for the night.
It was a bit harder than usual to fall asleep that night. Most of my thoughts went towards the missing caravan and Loakee and I talking. 'Why is that?' He would ask every time I gave an answer to a question, like an onion being peeled to get to the inner layer. The next answer. 'And why do you think that is?'. Another answer given: 'Is that so?'
For someone who remained vague about himself and his past, he definitely had a habit of asking plenty of questions. In a strange way, it was actually thrilling to think of a response. Like he was challenging me, encouraging me to go and grasp onto the answer myself. Letting me reflect on things that normally wouldn't be reflected upon in every day life. There was also me throwing flowers on him because I thought it was funny, but I digress.
Loakee likes knowing things. It still baffles me that he'd find an ordinary person such as myself a fascinating object of study, as if there weren't just about hundreds of other adventurers scattered about town with tales more interesting than mine, but I genuinely wonder what he thinks he'll find, if it ever gets to that point, and whether he would think to like the discovery. I'm still rather wary of getting too comfortable with him too quickly, but perhaps that's because there is a mask there that keeps people at arm's length while he tries to dissect them for more information. Just like the mask of Red. I suppose if he lowers his mask, I might lower mine, whatever the bloody hell sort of mask it is, but for now, well, I suppose we'll be stuck in this strange dance of exchanging stories and opinions, all for the quest to know more.
I jokingly offered him flowers when I said goodbye, citing it would be good practice for gaining self-confidence, but some part of me, the part with an utterly twisted sense of humour, wondered what would have happened had I done it seriously.
Nothing good, I would imagine.
