The Wheel of Time turns, and ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings or endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
Eladar smelled the acrid odor of smelted iron mingling with the sweet aroma of freshly baked pie as he walked up the Baerlon street, leading his old horse Greywind past the shops. There were shops on every street in Baerlon, with awnings overhanging the front of the buildings, sheltering tables full of wares. A few locals whispered and watched Eladar, as on the back of Greywind were five wolf hides accompanying the coneys, deer pelts, and venison he had brought to trade. He passed by Haldin Verhouse, the slim man taking out his pipe and granting Eladar a nod. The hunter gave one in return.
He had always felt Baerlon endearing, in a fashion. Just small enough to remain quaint and relatively quiet, but just big enough to buy and sell whatever you needed, and the men and women here were always friendly, albet wary of the frontiersman. Eladar had done little to make himself less of a stranger, wandering into the Caemlyn Gate once four times a season to sell skins and buy provisions, asking the occasional questions on news of the kingdom or far off lands. But he cast his gaze downward as five men in bright white cloaks marched past, eyes scanning every face, every corner of the streets.
Eladar turned east, down Halow Street, finally stopping Greywind before a home-turned-shop he made a stop at every visit to town. To his surprise, at the front of the home, instead of the three sisters, he found Master Fitch bargaining with one of the three shop's proprietors, Rana.
"A seam is a seam! Now I have good silver pennies here and I tell you I need blankets by the end of the week. We'll be flooded for Bel Tine and I can't give rooms without proper bedding, miss Farshaw. Is there nothing you can do?" He asked. Master Fitch was a kind man, but he tended to speak a lot. He is as round as the al'Vere matron, with puffs of hair sticking out above his ears.
"Now Fitch, I told you I have to get what we've sewn together for the festival! The Congars will race across Teran Ferry and sneer at us, if they don't get the switches, if we don't get these finished. But we'll see what we can do for you. Mirren might be able to find some more bundles to put together, and if luck is with us we'll get those done too. Oh, don't give me that look, Fitch!" She exclaimed, shaking her head. It was at that point Greywind nickered, pawing at the ground.
Master Fitch gave a start when he turned around, the color draining from his wide face. Rana seemed more pleased, though her look soured when her eyes fell upon the wolf skins. Fitch gave a laugh that only served to marginally lessen his pallor. "Why, master huntsman, good to see you! I take it the winter treated you well?"
"A cold hand gives as well as a warm one," Eladar said by way of an answer, pulling the deer hides off Greywind and draping them along his shoulder. "Any mail for me?"
"None, same as always." Master Fitch remarked, finally collecting himself. They had always been amicable, and Master Fitch had once gotten blind drunk and shared his life story with Eladar one night two summers ago. But unless he was in his safe, comfortable inn, he was wary of the huntsman. He moved in a way that made the plump man nervous, and Eladar knew his eyes made some rustic folk uncomfortable. It was a secondary reason he wore a wide brimmed hat when he came to town, keeping his head down on the wide streets.
"Well, these deerskins might just save you, Fitch." Rana said with a smirk, placing her hands on her hips. "Though I've never used wolfskin before. Maybe Jan might know how to spin that into something we could use..."
"Where did you get the skins, master huntsman?" Fitch asked, warily approaching Greywind, as if he couldn't quite believe it. He brushed the fur of the top skin, and shuddered. "Blood and bloody ashes, these are large. But there are no wolves around here. Where did you-"
"There are now." Eladar said cryptically, placing the skins on the leading table. He glanced at the innkeeper, who shied away from the horse when the beast whinnied. "Fetch me some brandy, and the usual of your stock. Once I'm done here, I'll give you a visit to grab them."
Eladar did not have the patience or willingness to explain the extent of his time at the cabin. How the trees had become refuges for bandits, and the wolves and bears had come down from the mountains, attacking Emond's Fielders within earshot of their homes. He did not tell them of the strange shrieks he heard at night, or the winged shapes that eclipsed the moon when the sky was clear. He did not want to worry them, as it served no purpose. Even if he had, they would only close the gates earlier, and keep poor men and women stuck out there in the elements.
Three hours later, just after the noon bell rang at the Stag & Lion Inn, he rode Greywind east, toward his lonely home at the edge of the wilderness. He had no way of knowing how much he had been noticed, and how the wheel would pull him back in when he least wanted it.
@Penny