Some said his name was Erns, and others that it was Orin. No one actually knew, nor did they ask him. But, day after day, he sat in the same seat in the tavern as life went on around him.
Now, don’t get the wrong impression. This was not some dark, brooding, hooded character sitting in a shadowed corner. He was actually a man of average proportions that sat at a central table with his back to the bar, and facing the door. He wore no armour, nor did he carry any visible weaponry.
Each day he would watch and listen to the interactions of others while never getting involved. He would have a glass of red wine, and eat a plate of stew everyday except Thirday and Fifthday when he would have cold mutton and mashed turnips. He would then nurse a tankard of ale until an hour before the bell. He would get up, tap a coin on the table, nod to the serving wench and leave.
Ernest, as that was his name, would walk silently home and light the lamp on the table next his bed. He would then remove his boots and sit before the waiting parchment and spin tales based upon his eavesdropping of the night. His yarns were known throughout the realm, though all imagined him to be some scholar in a lofty tower, or a noble in a stately home recounting his own past glories. Ernest was, however, the son of a waggoner He was asimple author: the observer of life, and the weaver of other’s saccounts into intricate stories that spoke to all. Ernest might have been quiet, but his message was heard by all.