It’s quiet.

I’ve never heard this kind of silence before.

There’s always been a noise around me even in the quiet.

Dogs barking, the coughing of smoke, my thoughts being too loud for me to think.

But here it’s a different kind of quiet, whispers of leaves, the cheerful chuckling of a stream.

Here my thoughts are quiet.

Here I can think.

Society ground me into the dust. Putting down any differences, extinguishing any of my uniqueness. I was drowning, their expectations were suffocating me. The city was making it hard for me to breath.

So I left.

I snuck away one night. I slung some clothes and a couple of toiletries in a light drawstring bag. Crammed and shoved all my art supplies into my only other bag big enough to carry it all, an old discarded duffel bag I’d found in a trash can. I slung it over my shoulder and strapped my clothes bag on my back, and started walking.

I’d like to think it was my work that paid for my wandering, and it did, somewhat, but it was really my luck and my confidence. I knew my craft and could point out to anyone the reasons why my work was top notch. My paintings always seemed to help me make allies and open doors. I had plenty of my own independence and confidence to defend myself when the need arose and any number of willing people at my back if anything went south.

But no matter how nice they thought they were, helping out the young wanderer for the night and giving themselves a pat on the back, they would always look at me with that same shocked expression when they asked

“So where are ya headed?” And every time when I answered seriously

“The Wild Lands”

Their eyes would catch this pool of pity inside them and a flicker of disbelief. Like they were thinking

“Oh you poor fool are you serious? Oh my gosh they are.”

And there are some who say it to my face, with honeyed words that makes my stomach want to turn inside out. Or with a good riddance that makes my jaw lock. And those who haven’t the sense open their big mouths and say something along the lines of how my painting won’t save me there. Almost all of those people got a good crack on the jaw, or a black eye at least. People can think and say all they want about my sanity, heck I’ve already told myself half the things they say every night before I close my eyes. But nobody without any authority on the subject is going to diss my painting skills to give themselves an ego trip.

When people learn I’m a painter they expect a meek little thing who doesn’t know what they’re doing. I may be a little petite, and although I’m not the smallest I’m pretty close to it, but Guardians help your ass if you mistake me for meek. Plenty of people have tried to take advantage of me. I’ve been jumped and shortchanged, insulted and exploited. It makes me glad of the travel, of the wandering. The farther I get from the Center of stone and metal, the more green I see makes my burden of dirty clothes and canvas lighter. The people out here are warmer, but also harder as well in their own way, they don’t have the city’s safety or high magic to keep them comfortable, but they don’t need it.

When I’d encountered my first village that didn’t reek of sulfur and magical motes didn’t float in the air like white falling snow, I was confused by the warmer welcome I received. They weren’t close enough to the Center to have cold frost and creeping ice building up in their chest. The farther I went out the simpler things became. Capturing the wonders I saw on the way in colored glory with my brushes and canvas. Feelings of freedom began to flutter in my chest. Then the next town over I traded my paintings for supplies and anything I could use to make something that I could sell at the next town.

Once, while I was traveling to a large village to be able to start looking for some sort of pack animal I came across a gorgeous vista. It was quite by accident, as I had fallen through some brush trying to find something fresh that I could eat, I was tired of eating my preserved food. I crashed straight through and managed to angle myself so instead of breaking my legs in the short fall I merely had the breath knocked out of me. As I was lying on the dirt I could see the brush had grown almost completely over the hole I’d fallen through making a natural pitfall. When my gasping lungs had finally gotten their breath back I sat up and stared at the cavern in wonder. It was a gorgeous jungle down here with light streaming in from other little cave entrances allowing exotic flowers of all different colors and shapes to grow in abundance. The real show stopper though, were the massive plinths of crystal jutting out in all angles from the cavern floor and ceiling. I didn’t even question how this wondrous place had even formed. I just knew I had to paint it. It took me three whole days of sketching, waiting for the right light, laying down the flat colors, and then finally brushing in the shadows and light before I was finished.

The next day was when I actually stumbled into town looking like some sort of forest beggar, but the stares never came close to my horrid state, all of the villagers only had eyes for my best painting yet. I’d refused to put it away in my bag and had used the largest canvas I’d had at the time, which had of course contributed to my bedraggled state, but I’d rather sacrifice my image than risk ruining this one. As soon as the mayor saw it he asked to buy it, along with the many others who had seen me lug it into the town square. I was not in the mood to be shortchanged, I never was in a good mood when I had to sell any of my favorite paintings, but I couldn’t very well keep hauling it around, it would slow me down and make me more of a target for theft and robbery. So I said whoever gave me the best offer could have it. You’d think I’d just sounded a hunting horn and released the hounds the way the villagers went at it. It threatened to become a riot after the Mayor immediately called out a sum that had to be the entire coffers of the town, and the town wasn’t going to let the mayor use their money to buy a painting they wanted. This was one of the reasons I left the center, greed, I was dismayed to see it here in this much ferocity as well. Finally I could take it no longer, I was angry at these fools, my paintings were the best that ever could be but it wasn’t worth starving a whole village for, and I told them as much. The quiet that descended was the quiet of eyes looking at me curious and wondering why they shouldn’t sacrifice everything for something pretty in their home. I sighed and wearily asked for supplies for my wanders and asked if anyone knew of any place I could buy pack animals.

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A sheepish young girl scuttled like a crab sideways towards me and pointed at the peak of a house at one end of the town I nodded to her, sighed inwardly at what I had resigned myself to doing when things started to get out of hand. I asked her which part of my crystal cave painting she liked best. She went as read as a strawberry complete with a blond thatch of hair on the top of her head. She mumbled something about the blue and white star shaped flower in the corner. I told her it’s common name was the Sky’s Rose. She whispered the name under her breath as she gazed longingly at the flower I’d rendered in my paint, her whisper suddenly caught in her throat turning it into a strangled gasp that echoed in an undignified squawk the gasp that rippled through the crowd. As I drew my knife and unceremoniously cut out a nice square from the canvas, careful to make sure that even a bit of leaf wasn’t missing from the sky flower, as I handed the scrap to the little girl. Her face had gone pale and her knuckles as white as a sheet. She held the fabric gently, hugging it to her chest. The rest of the crowd just stood there dumbfounded as I grabbed the rest of my painting and headed toward the building the girl had pointed out.

The rest of the day I traded scraps of my masterpiece for all the rations I would need for the next two weeks, I bought a new canteen as my old one had sprung a leak. The building the little village girl pointed me to was indeed a stable with plenty of good looking horses, mules, and donkeys. An older man with a weathered face and bowed legs, wiped his hands with a spare bit of cloth, and came over to me.

“So you’re the infamous Painted Wanderer I’ve been hearing so much about, you’re a lot younger than I thought you’d be.” He didn’t phrase it as a question and as I looked down at my tunic and cloak, splattered with paint and mud, it was not hard to guess why, I looked like a painted wreck. I nodded to him and gave him my best muster of a smile but my weariness must have shifted across my face like a shadow from a tree. He gave me a benevolent smile and asked “So, young wanderer, what can I do for ya?” I told him I was looking for some sort of pack animal, although traveling by foot was fine it’d be much faster on a mount, and I’d be able to carry a bit more than I would be able to by myself. He frowned thoughtfully and rubbed his grizzled chin, before saying. “That’s a pretty special kind of animal you're asking for there. Why don’t you come see what I have available and we can go from there?”

I nodded curious as to what he meant by special, but followed him around the back of the building to where his stables were set up. As we were making our way into the paddock I asked him what he meant by a ‘special’ animal. “Well more likely than not you’re going to be spending a lot of time with this animal and typically whoever comes looking to choose an animal finds an animal choosing them.” I wasn’t sure how to take that, this being the first time I had ever bought any semblance of a pet. He showed me a couple mules at first but they seemed too full of hyper energy and that wasn’t really what I was looking for, though their mismatched bodies were pretty cute. Next he showed me some of his donkeys which were fine if a bit older than I’d like. Then he brought out some of the horses, with varying coat colors and personalities. There was a black pony with white socks that intrigued me but a pony was far too impractical for the amount of traveling and supplies I’d have to carry in the long term. In the end none of the choices he recommended really stuck out to me as long term companions or anything like he’d said. I was feeling doubtful of his whole philosophy behind it and to be honest feeling a little disappointed that it wasn’t true.

The old stable master got a strange look across his face. He took my hand and said “Come with me.” He led me to the back of his stable and we stood at the edge of this huge fenced field. It was so large I couldn’t see the end of the fencing that disappeared over some nearby hills. As I was wondering what I was looking at, he started telling me a story. “I found this young horse out wild in the plains, she was strong, fast, and smart enough to give me a right run around, before I managed to maneuver her into this here paddock. Had a hard time getting her to break to the saddle though, strong spirit that one. Seems like she misses being able to run, and be free, to wander, kind of like you young artist, eh?” He nudged me with laughter in his eyes. “She don’t like other people too much and she’s rightly wild, I wonder though, you too would make a right pair, so why don’t we give it a shot? If we wait a few minutes she’ll come tearing up to the fence just you wait, she can’t sit still that one, always has to be moving.”

He gave me another side look with a cheeky grin on his weathered face and I knew he was thinking of all the comparisons with me and that horse. Which was fine, I didn’t mind too much, there was something likable about this old horse handler, but I still didn’t understand how he thought this would work.

Then I saw her, she started as a small silhouette on the edge of the farthest hill in the rough figure of a horse which rapidly moved closer. She then turned into a tiny figurine growing closer and closer with each passing second. As she grew nearer I realized how fast she was, her tangled mane flying out behind her and her tail streaming out like a ribbon. She was gorgeous. Her mane and tail were a russet red brown, her strong fast legs pounding the grass had socks of that same gorgeous red clay brown. Her soft nose flaring for breath and her ears shoved forward to hear us talking were that same lovely brown. The browns all faded into a dusky gray that contrasted her brown coloring to make it warm and lively. She had flecks of that mahogany color all over her gray coat like I had accidentally flicked some paint onto her.

As she neared closer and closer to the fence the horse master backed away. But I stood there enthralled by her conformation the way she moved, better than any of the Center’s best machines. The Stable Master tried to shout a warning to me but it was too late as the horse neared the fence. I could hear her breath puff out of her nose, I could see her gather herself ready to take a leap over the fence at me and then our eyes locked. She skidded to a halt, dust and dirt flying from under her hooves as she just managed to stop before the fence. Her ears were shoved forwards and her neck stretched out over the railing as she regarded me with one of her large brown eyes. They were like mirrors that reflected my own soul back at me. She huffed out a sigh as if to say Finally you’re here! What took you so long?!

----

The stable master was kind enough to give me some basic training on how to ride a horse. I’d been learning over the past week how to ride the wild horse, and the wild horse had to learn how to carry an extra weight on her back, but we managed just fine. We had naturally fallen into a bond that was indescribable to me, so much so that since that day I have tried many times to paint that feeling but never with much success. We were just finishing up our last bits of training when the stable master surprised me again.

“So what’d you name her?”

What a question, it was something that I hadn’t really thought of before, I’d never had a pet before and all of the names I knew from the Center would never fit my wild girl. I thought to myself and of all the places I’d been at that point. Suddenly I remembered a great cathedral of purple clouds in the sky, rolling with a fast fury across the open sky with a growl of thunder signally the arrival of a thunderstorm.

“Nimbus.” I said, nothing else fit so perfectly.

----

That was the last day the Painted Wanderer was in town, they left with Nimbus that evening, riding off into the open land, thunderclouds rolling in behind them. They wouldn’t hear of what they’d done for the town until several years later but when the first forks of lightning appeared and the first drumbeat of thunder sounded across the landscape, something strange happened to the pieces of paint and canvas distributed amongst the town. Winds and rain tore through the town ripping the canvas from walls, bookcases, and cabinets, whisking them out into the pouring rain. When the storm finally cleared and the townsfolk began looking for their lost pieces of art, they were all drawn by shouts of awe to the town square. Where in all its glory, the painting was, whole again. The swirls of color painted into the bricks of the town square, becoming part of the town itself, so that the people would never fight over it again. The mural never stayed in place though, it would wander, break apart again one day and come back together whole another. Pieces would be missing and then found on other buildings. Earning its name as the Wandering Peace.