Wendigo
Member

He had heard from the boars who had harbored him the week before that the king of these lands was good to those who others considered strangers, monsters. He had met several along the way who would be considered monstrous in the surrounding petty kingdoms. Orcs, moontouched, goblinkin – those who would be cast out for what they were, what their people had done. And the king, he was told, was a great lover of music and the arts.
His own music was of course more loved for being exotic than for being good. The sitar hung from his back, his tabar at his left hip, his totem dagger on his right. One saddlebag carried the goods of his survival – his rations, his rope, his bedroll, his tinder, all of which would need to be replenished before he left tomorrow. The other contained his more civil livelihood, the tools of the mason and stoneworker. He looked exotic, a foreigner from a far-off place, and people watched as he passed with whispers and murmurs. When he had stopped to lunch, he had been asked for stories of his homeland, and he had obliged with the tales he kept prepared for such occasions. He was welcome for his outlandishness, high and low.
Today, the sky was threatening a storm, so he was aiming high. He was sure that word had already spread of his visit – and, if it hadn’t, it likely would soon. Merchants like those set up along either side of the road were notorious gossips, which he used to his advantage with both soft questions about the king and expectations that they’d pass word on to anyone making deliveries to the great rectangular castle that sat at the crest of the hill, perched as it was like a great bird surveying its territory. He had little doubt it would see him before he let Gypsy’s hooves touch the bridge that led over the moat, in view of the guards atop the portcullis on either side. A traveling mason – more importantly, a traveling musician with his sitar visible, would usually be welcome at any hearth long enough for the storm to pass.