Tranquility

By Irony Illuminator

Prologue

It was a peaceful place.

A small flock of sheep grazed on the hillside just outside its reaches, their plaintive baah-ing wafting faintly to the ear: certainly tolerable, if not soothingly pleasant. A small boy with a small shepherd’s staff in his hand stood near them, staring off idly into the distance while a lamb proceeded to eat the hem of his knee-length tunic.

The village itself was small, no more than a few streets, and yet it bustled with activity. Not the annoying sort of activity that made you dizzy with its pure speed and hastiness, but the kind that one enjoyed observing, for it displayed the natural industriousness of mankind.

It was a community of farmers. A goodwife wandered down one of the dirt streets to gossip with her neighbor goodwife, children played in the grass beside their homes, and the sound of life stock permeated the air. Somewhere in the village, a blacksmith was working, his instruments of iron slamming down on molten metals, bending them into appropriate shape.

One single peddler stood on what appeared to be the main street and spoke to those villagers passing by, adding to the accumulation of curious farm folk that had already gathered about him. The appearance of such a fascinating personage was apparently quite rare, and attracted a decent amount of attention.

It was a peaceful place.

He looked down on it from the steep hill just south of the village: a lone figure standing there with his ragged cloak flapping in the wind, a worn staff in his hand and a dirty bag over his shoulder.

A lone figure, a lonely figure.

The wind continued to tug at his cloak without mercy, but he didn’t seem to notice it. He stared down on the village with an intent gaze, dark eyes calculatingly pondering. It was so simple, so peaceful seeming.

It would serve his purpose, and quite sufficiently.

The time had come when he could finally start afresh in the world, and leave everything behind.

He grimaced at that last thought, fingering a soiled, clumsily applied bandage over his temple. The things he was leaving behind were more than welcome to stay there, and never move again. He had no desire to cross paths with them again.

The wanderer began making his way down the steep slope to the place where the narrow, worn path led to the village.

His life would once again be his own.