The man rose with the sun, dutifully packed up his simple camp, mounted his horse, and set off. To allow his eyes to adjust to the rising sun, he had Tolo trot even slower than usual.

Later that day, with the sun directly overhead, he arrived in Munum. This was the first town he’d visit and the one he most looked forward to. Just like the dozens of times before, he rode through the town’s rugged stone gates en route to the bookbinder. He secured Tolo to the hitching post out front and pulled open the shop door.

Over the last several hundred years, bookbinders had become a depot of all things enlightened. Art supplies, musical instruments, vellum and parchments, inkwells, and the like were all stocked– in addition to the namesake service they provided. Being in a bookbinder shop--with the smell of ink, oil, and leather--was one of the small, fleeting joys the traveller still had. A memory of simpler times.

“Hello again! It’s been a while since you’ve been in town. How have you been? Three each of smoke, sky, moss, and lapis?” The bookbinder peppered his not-so-new customer with questions. He was an older man with wireframe spectacles, and though completely bald on top, he had combed his wispy, white hair from one ear to the other in a terrible failure of concealment. He wasn’t much taller than the counter he stood behind.

“Yes, more of the same, please,” the traveller replied, ignoring the other questions. This dance had become somewhat familiar to the both of them.

“Need anything else?” asked the bookbinder as he handed him a small wooden box.

“No, thank you.” The traveller gave the bookbinder a small coin purse of lords. Neither man bothered to confirm the amount inside. He’d bought the same thing regularly from every bookbinder in Umlom, and neither the price nor his procurements ever changed. Just as he was about to leave, an apprentice popped out from the back. He was in his thirties, short like his employer, and had the first signs of a receding hairline. He, too, wore spectacles.

“Hi!” he said with enthusiasm. “Any new work to show?” The question was innocent enough, but the traveller’s reaction was similar to being called ‘Paint.’ His eye twitched, and he could feel his canines scrape along his lower lip.

No... Nothing new, he thought to himself.

“You come in and buy paint every few months, but I’ve never seen any of your work. I must admit, you’re a strange painter, ser!” The master bookbinder shot his apprentice a glance of disapproval.

“I’m not a painter,” was the traveller’s first non-transactory reply since he’d entered the shop.

“Well, your clothes betray you, my friend.”

They both glanced down at his paint-splattered trousers. The traveller realised he was no better at hiding his vocation than the bookbinder was at hiding his baldness.

The apprentice abruptly changed the subject, still unaware it was conversation in general his customer was trying to abstain from.

“Have you heard of Yunekvin from Nlamkás? Apparently, he’s the most talented painter in generations. His painting of the Sanctuary of the Ancients is supposed to be sublime. I heard folk talking about it a few weeks ago. They say he’s a descendant of halfgods, but you know how people exaggerate...” The continued attempts at conversation still didn’t elicit the response the apprentice was craving. The traveller gave a thankful nod to the master bookbinder before turning and exiting the shop.

The traveller secured the newly purchased supplies in his saddlebags and offered Tolo an apple in exchange for her patience. Tolo accepted these terms and he made his way on foot to the local tavern, only about fifty yards further into town. The place was more than half-full with patrons, which pleased the traveller as he surveyed the room from its crooked entrance.

While he hadn’t been to this town or tavern in a few months, his routine was the same here as it was in each of the several he could visit. Enter, survey, sit in the middle of the room, and sip on a single drink for as long as anyone mingled about the place.

He focused his eyes and ears on various parties, hoping to glean some information. This clandestine endeavour was his attempt to gain knowledge about the world outside his small village. He hoped for news, or something he’d be able to go on. The patrons on this day talked of the wonders, and with their voices lowered, something about a group called the cogs. They boasted of dragon hunting and violent tempests at sea, but today, like every tavern in every town for nearly five years, there was no news. No leads.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I’ll figure it out, eventually. I have to.

The tavern’s drinkers and diners eventually got up, paid for their fare, and made their way into the afternoon sun. With no one left to eavesdrop on, the traveller did the same. From the tavern, he headed straight to the message board at the edge of town and pored over every word in every notice, hoping for something to catch his eye. But like every time before, he was left dejected, with no more information than when he’d entered town.

Not learning anything on his first pass, he scanned again, looking for any decent lord-paying work. A few days of ploughing fields, picking vegetables, or clearing brush would do. He needed only enough lords to purchase a month’s worth of paint and the few foodstuffs he wasn’t able to secure through hunting or foraging.

Certain he hadn’t missed anything, he left the message board and rejoined Tolo in front of the bookbinder’s shop. He climbed into the saddle and trotted up and across town to the southern gates. The town’s Banner hung beneath the centre of the archway and gently flapped in the soft afternoon breeze. The green and black Banner was emblazoned with the elements of bear, snake, and mountains. The people who lived in the valley town of Munum had flown this Banner for millennia.

With the Ancient Banner at his back, he headed south on the sloping road toward Inrunson. On a good day, it was no more than a few hours away, but the plodding traveller would again be sleeping under the stars before he made it to Inrunson’s gates.

After a short stint on the road, he left the hard-packed dirt and ventured off through the woods and highlands lining his route. Despite the vast rolling lands to the west, he made certain not to veer too far from his course. Years of traversing these parts made him acutely aware of what his limits were.

His pace through the forest trails slowed even further as he observed the world around him. It was easier to search with dusk looming. The time between when the diurnal animals went to ground and before the creatures of the night started their watch. Every so often he heard a sound and brought his horse to a stop to investigate. Empty-handed, he and Tolo continued their methodical trot. Much of his progress was marked by frequent veering to the west and meticulously recording his results.

After several hours, mostly southbound, he emerged from a thick brush and found a suitable place to make camp for the evening. He wasn’t far from Inrunson, but night had fallen and he wasn’t in a rush.

The next day, much the same as the one before, he woke and rode into town. Inrunson didn’t have a bookbinder, so he headed straight to the inn to break his fast and engage in harmless spycraft on unsuspecting customers. A few hours later, and long after he had finished his meal, he made his way to the message board filled with the same glimmer of hope he’d had the day before. The scraps of paper and rusty nails didn’t reveal anything on this day, either. On his second pass, he made note of someone in Onny looking for shore clammers. With his next job decided, he remounted his horse, heading for the edge of town. From Inrunson, it should take no more than a day to make Kinney, but like every trip, he stretched it into an overnight endeavour.

No matter how much variety he tried to add to his trips, they were all some combination of Inrunson, Onlumum, Munum, Runman and Tunum. Beyond those towns, a painful pounding would beat inside his head. He tried several times to visit Munpun, and had even reached the city gates, but despite being steps away, he was unable to go any further. It was as if he had reached the end of a leash. A reminder he had ventured too far.

***

Long after dusk, four days after he’d left, he finally emerged from the woods south of Kinney and picked up the last leg of the road through town, to his house on the outskirts. He slumped in the saddle after the long trek and under the weight of yet another failed trip.

He walked Tolo around back, where he had an apple and a handful of oats for her. It may have been another failed mission, but she had done her part well, loyally aiding in his futile reconnaissance. Tolo lowered her head, letting him remove the bridle, and whinnied in approval of his patting. Procurements underarm, he entered through the back and laid them on the table. It was pitch black in the house and he fumbled to find a candle. Even the faint moonlight couldn’t find the interior of his house, as the windows were covered from edge to edge with old canvases. Under flickering candlelight, he carefully unpacked the items from the bookbinder. There were fresh canvases, neatly rolled and ready to be stretched. With the lid pried off his box, light danced on the twelve glass jars of paint carefully nested into wood shavings. Each hue was quite familiar to him. Tucked between the jars were three new horsehair brushes, his preferred tools of his trade. After carefully setting the jars of paint on the table, he laid the brushes beside in deliberate fashion. He prepared a canvas, set it in the easel, and stepped back to look over his set-up.

I wonder what I’ll paint this time...

His attention turned to the walls of the house, once a happy and bustling place, now lonely and quiet. A variety of his paintings had once covered nearly every square foot of wall space. Now spectres of the past hanging on cold iron nails looking down. He fiddled with his ring. Kahriah used to joke that you could only see the walls if he had sold a piece. The walls were still covered in his paintings, but he hadn’t sold any. It wasn’t for lack of skill in the commerce of art; it was that he hadn’t painted anything original in over five years.