[center][h3][color=0054a6]The Hermit[/color][/h3][/center]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/i6fLcHF.pngp[/img][/center]

Everything seemed according to his travel plans. This road would be void of most travelers during the day, as they would choose safer roads. Roads with more soldiers. Roads he wished to avoid. Soldiers he wished to avoid even more. Under his breath he retold stories to himself that he would perform in the next town over. He practiced every word, every stroke of his lute, though he refused to play it now in fears that something may try to eat him or someone may accidentally here a plucked string. He made sure every word he said ended in the right vernacular snap.

“Tis the tale of Harry the Farm Boy turned Playboy,” he says under his breath with a smile on his face. He had gotten to the point of not just telling tales of nobility, but slowly writing his own works and notes. They were often a hit, giving him big tips when he ended the night. Of course he carried the classics and tried to stay out of the spotlight as best as he could. He couldn’t afford being talked about. 

He squinted his eyes, and his chest fluttered with anxiety. There were figure slowly growing closer and closer. He was certain they had already saw him and he was lingering on the road too long. What should he do? He wasn’t prepared to greet anyone, the Hermit looked around frantically and found the only solution was to duck into a bush on the side of the road near enough size to hide his silhouette. Perhaps he could fake his own existence and they would pass him by.