I once knew a man, whose life could be myth or could be true fact, no one remembers the truth. It all began with a simple boy, who was born on the road from Elenhall to Glenwood, whose parents were making a journey to start life anew. His parents being broke peasants in the city of nobles, Elenhall, had decided the best way to earn any keep was to go to the growing merchant town and travelers pass, Glenwood. Over time the child grew, and worked around the tavern that his father built with newfound friends in the town, the farmer, who gave fresh flour and meats in return for free ales, and the brewer, who in turn for the best brews around could take their finest horse to ride in the beautiful fields on his days off of work. With this partnership, the Horses Stables was built in mere weeks. Townsfolk as well as travelers came to love him as the boy who listened. When they would tell either tall tales or events of everyday life, he would listen attentively. Soon, the boy became to realize that there were so many tales overcrowding his mind, he had to write the ones he heard in newer days in order to remember those he heard in the past.
Being the only tavern in Glenwood, there were many a strange visitors that came by. There were elves and dwarves among the humans of the town, as well as soldiers that were coming home from the war with the kingdom over. At least, that’s what the kingdoms peoples were told. As stated before, there were many a strange visitors that came to and fro into the tavern to rest, but one stood out. It was normal to see a cloaked being come into the tavern here and there, but not in a cloak the color of deep, dried blood, with golden trims and a hood with intricate details and designs on the sides of it in that same gold thread. The hood seemed to be covering a face, if there even was a face, but there was most definitely a body under the cloak. The boy studied with great care this man cloaked in blood and trimmed with gold as he sat in the farthest corner. How the boy knew it was a man was first by his gait, heavy footsteps with boots that were larger than that of his by nearly another of his foot. Second, was by the man’s one hand that was not gloved, with graying, yet still black hair on the back. This man was surely no elf, for his stature and hairy hands did not point in that pathway, nor was he dwarf or a rather tall dwarf. And a rather tall dwarf could also be described as a man without the skin of iron and clothing of choice as every dwarf.
This man came everyday, the same time of day, for three months. The boys father tried to force the man out, the boys mother tried to talk to the man and ask him to leave, the boys choice of action, was to let him stay, and to sit with the man and try to see what the man was looking at from under the hood. What the boy saw was laughter and cheering as comrades found each other after years, or maybe even just days after their last meeting. He saw tired farmers coming for a drink after a long day on the fields. The boy even saw lovers that were embracing cupids gift to them, or drowning in their sorrow and drink as they realize their loved one is gone. He saw comedy and tragedy, all gathered in one place. The boy watched in marvel as if finally climbing under the cloak and seeing life from a view he had never experienced before. All the time, he heard biased tales that had falsities woven into the tales in places you cannot predict and believe in.
“Life is truly a miracle,” The hooded man whispered to the boy in a tired and hoarse voice, leaving the boy to merely watch the man, in wonder, speak from under the blood scarlet hood, “everyone sees it differently. Some see despair and lost hope. Others see chances and chance to right what they had done wrong. Few can see the equilibrium of the negatives and the positives.” The boy looked away again and pondered how the man knew of what he saw among the crowd, and being a boy who grew to be quiet, he knew that there was no answer nor reaction to what the man said, and subconsciously they both established that it was better to just sit quiet and continue to watch and record the miracles of life, be them enjoyable or regretful.