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Shuffling. Shuffling. Hobbling in the sand. Leaving a trail of tightly spaced bare footprints in the dirt behind him, an Old Hermit Wanderer shuffled. Within his frail old hand was a stick, probably suited to walking, but he was probably not averse to hitting things (or people) with it, either. For now, he used it as a support to prop up his thin, gaunt frame as he shuffled. He didn’t seem to have a heading; he just [i]walked[/i]. His smoke-grey beard had become unkempt and far too long for his own liking, but there was little to do about that; his cheekbones had become more pronounced than they had ben in recent years, but it would have been impossible to tell as he always seemed to smile. Somehow. 

He had been humming a long forgotten ditty to himself for the considerable count of four days before he found another among the rolling hills. It wasn’t something he had expected, so he stopped. It made him feel strange to not be humming, but he dare not make a bad impression by introducing himself with bad manners. The young man seemed to be in distress, kneeling on the ground and talking to a map, as though it were to offer him answers to whatever questions he may have. He was turning it every way, this way and that, and the Old hermit was so focused on the hypnotic spinning of the paper that he almost toppled over just watching the lad think. 
He seemed perplexed by the lay of the land; perhaps the hermit could help? Maybe they could help each other. Maybe the confused boy would be able to offer a solution to his predicament. 

“Fancy meeting you here!” he shouted from a distance, smiling to the man who would have looked up at him in some wild confusion. The Hermit waved as though the two knew each other prior, and began to shuffle faster to close the distance. Shouting was such effort. 
It took him not a minute to get close to the man, whereupon he ceased his rapid shuffle and commenced his slow one once more, breathing heavily to regain his breath after such strenuous shuffling. “You seem somewhat lost, my lad!” he said. 

He came to a complete halt, and did not allow the man to speak before he started at it again. 

“I think I can lead you out of the hills if you are willing to walk with a man at a slow pace! I have found myself it a bit of a pickle if I do say so!” 

He allowed the man to compose himself and stand once more; he towered over the Hermit, but most people did. He had once been a stone of a man (or so he thought, the ravages of senility had done him no favours) but since then, his weakening body had continued to shrink and shrivel. [i]Kind of like a grape[/i] he thought to himself. 

“You see, i’m looking for a strapping young lad just like yourself to help me find someone!” he said, jolly as ever. But he leaned closer, his eyes lost their jovial light and for a very brief moment became like fixtures of onyx within his whitened face. “There is a man walking these wastes, obsidian armour glittering as new. He towers above any other man. He has recently found himself with the company of not one, but four souls of sound mind.” 

He allowed himself to rest upon his stick once more, urging his muscles to pull back to avoid him falling flat into the ground. He probably would have never been able to right himself after such a horrendous fall. 

“He does that from time to time. He rounds up people like you, makes them trust him, [i]and he then kills them for their memories[/i]. Scared of emptiness, I think. It's terrible, I know, but I do believe that these people are in trouble. I think we have a chance at saving them. He did it not but five weeks ago! And eight times before then!” 

He perked up one more, his back straightening against the walking stick once more, rather than fulling hunching over it like a flaccid strip of damp fabric. 

“So what do you say!” he cried to the confused man. “Would you like walk an old man through the hills and back into the valley? You may just find your way out of here,” 

The Old Hermit smiled rather heartwarmingly, and gestured for the man to follow. He turned his back and began to shuffle back the way he came.