1

The wanderer had no name.
Instead, his cane had a name. Just like his cloak and the small bag of provisions he carried over his shoulder. In the past, he was sure, he had also had a name.


However, that time was long ago, and names tend to lose out to time.
The wanderer heard a quiet but familiar screech. He looked around. As always, it was impossible to determine whether it was coming from above or ahead.
The landscape painted a picture of quiet panic.

The trees bent willingly to the light breeze and the grass was marked by the footsteps of those before him. In the distance, a few rolling hills willfully blocked the view. If it were not for the path, he would surely have lost his way long ago.

As always, there was not an animal in sight except the black bird above him. The wanderer had called him Avemortis. Not that he knew what that meant or if that even meant anything. It simply suited the bird, just as his white beard suited him.

The wanderer devoured his meal in silence in the familiar shade of an apple tree. After he finished, he refilled his provision bag and continued to follow his guide, a path, just wide enough for one person, that stretched across the landscape like an old scar.