"Auld Elma? Ye in?" he knocked on the door of the little shack. The outside looked as dilapidated as all the other houses and shacks that hid beneath the city wall in this area.

"Who's there?" asked an old, cracking voice.

"Yer little boy. I've brought ye somethin' for yer dinner."

The door creaked open to reveal an old woman with a broom in her trembling hands. Her creased face lit up with joy when she saw him. "Ye're back! Come in, come in! Where have ye been, me boy? Yer Auld Elma was worried fer ye!" She ushered him through the door and closed it. "And look at ye! All banged up! Did someone pick on me poor little boy? Tell yer Auld Elma and she'll set them straight fer ye!"

The inside of the shackle was cozy and warm. A merry fire danced in the cracked hearth and kept the pot atop it warm. Old rugs decorated the walls and the floor. Conscious of them, he pulled his boots off right behind the door and set them onto the last piece of wooden floor that peeked out beneath the rugs. His backpack went next to them, together with his cloak.

A short search through his pack and he presented Auld Elma with the last large piece of slowly cooked deer meat.

"This is for ye, Auld Elma. Somethin' to add to yer dinner."

"Oh me dear little boy, that wasn't necessary! Ye know I don't mind feedin' ye," but she took the meat anyways and put it into a cupboard that had seen better days. "Sit down, boy. I already ate, but there are leftovers."

She pushed him onto a chair and brought him a bowl full of whatever had been in the pot. It looked like vegetable soup.

"Will ye stay for long, boy? Or gone with the dawn an' breakin' yer poor Elma's heart again?" She feigned a few tears.

"I'll stay a few days, Auld Elma. I have a bad leg that needs a rest," said Crear and shoveled several spoonfuls of the soup into his mouth. It was hot and tasted more like herbs than vegetables, but it was better than anything he could make.

"Yer leg? Me poor boy, what happened to ye?" Auld Elma shuffled closer to him and immediately crinkled her nose. "Ye stink of blood an' monsters an' dungeons. I should sweep ye out till ye're washed up. But me poor boy is wounded," she sighed immediately after raising her broom threateningly. "But ye will sleep on the floor tonight. Tomorrow ye'll wash up, yes? An' sleep in a proper bed again."

Crear rolled his eyes. He always slept on the floor. It wasn't that uncomfortable with all the rugs cushioning the wooden floor.

"Don't ye roll yer eyes at an old woman!" Elma nagged, whacking his head lightly with her broom. He made a show of the whack hurting more than it did. But they both smiled.

Having finished the soup, Crear leaned against the wall next to the hearth, bundling up in his heavy cloak.

"Ye tell Auld Elma what happened to ye tomorrow, eh? And play with the kids again, yes? They been lookin' everywhere for ye. They been missin' ye."

"Hah! Bet they only missed chuckin' rocks at me!" laughed Crear.

"Don't be like that. They love ye." Auld Elma tugged herself into the single bed on the other side of the room.

"Yeah, maybe..." mumbled Crear and put a big log into the hearth. Feeling safe at last, he closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come.

Thira's face stared at him, asking him to teach her magic. Lydia, earnestly listening to his suspicions about the fox dungeon. Roric, who hadn't apologized for triggering the trap, but who had silently sat across from him when he had woken up after starting proper treatment on his leg. And the infuriating smirk of the fox. [Do read your scroll, hehe.]

He tried it with meditation, with counting, but the fox remained in his minds eye, it's last words repeating over and over.

With a soft groan, he crawled to the door and procured the damned scroll. He should've burned it at the earliest possible chance. Crawling back to the fire as quietly as possible, he bundled up again and stared at the scroll. He could still throw it in the fire and be done with it. It was as easy as raising his hand and flicking the offending piece of paper with a bit of force. The flames would do the rest for him. Soon it would be nothing but ash.

Yet his hand refused to let go of it. Instead, he cracked the seal and unrolled it.

[Trustworthy allies will be necessary to reach beyond your goal.]

What a madcap trollsoup?! He crumpled the scroll in his hand.

Allies will be a hindrance to my goal, thank you very much. I don't need anyone, he thought viciously, throwing the paper into the stack of firewood next to the hearth.

Sleep finally caught up to his tired body, but his dreams were haunted by laughing foxes and a blue-haired girl asking him for magic.

"Havin' restless dreams again, eh?" mumbled Elma. Her old eyes glared over the short expanse of the room. She raised her gnarled hand and hissed: "Begone, remnant of the spirits. This is me home. Ye let me boy rest here in peace, or I'll smoke out yer lair."

There was a faint growl before her boy's forehead smoothed out again. His clenched fists loosened up to lay limp in his lap, a dagger clunking onto the rugs.

"Bad habit to sleep leaning against a wall, with yer weapons close. Someone should break this habit of ye. But not me," yawning, she rolled up in her blankets.

She woke up to a small fire in the hearth and an empty room.

"Gone again, eh? Youth these days..." grumbling, Elma crawled out of her bed and stretched. Grabbing her broom, she went about her shack and prepared breakfast. "And he left his pack again. Guess he'll be back soon." Another portion of oats went into her pot. After a short thought, she threw a third portion in, added water, fresh apples and pears and let it simmer over the fire.

Crear made his way back from the well, using a cane as help for his blindness. He wore several layers of patched clothes and carried a bucket with his freshly washed and wet clothes. His teeth still chattered from his quick scrub in the cold morning air. But at least he was clean again. Auld Elma had been right. He had reeked.

"Mum, he's back!"

"Uncle Cre's back!" Stick-thin children screeched as they busted out of their homes and crowded around him.

"Ye're back!" - "Were've ye been, Uncle Cre!" - "Play with us!" They jostled for his attention, jumping up and down and trying to out-screech each other, but with a care for his poor blind beggar disguise. No one wanted a rap on their head for throwing down the blind beggar.

He could see their mothers or fathers stand warily in their doors, making sure it was him and not a stranger come to steal their children.

"Slow down, pipsqueaks! I've been on the other side of town fer a few days. Still need to go back to Auld Elma afore she tans me hide fer bein' late fer breakfast. But we can play later today. Nothin' fancy 'cause I'm out of practice."

""Yay!"" the children ran around him, screaming happily. Their parents still stood in the doors, but less wary and with a small smile on their faces.

"And I'm sure yer own parents are waitin' fer ye lot to get back fer breakfast, too. Run along now." Crear raised his cane threateningly. The children laughed and ran back home.

With a smile on his face, he slowly finished his walk and knocked, before entering the shack.

"Where've ye been, ye fool! I was worried when ye were gone this mornin'!" Auld Elma swung her broom through the air. "And ye with a bad leg, to boot!"

"I've been washin' up, as ye had asked, Auld Elma," he said meekly and brought his bucket to the fire, to hang up his wet clothes. But a smile was on his face. He knew she didn't mean it. A glance into the pot showed him a big serving of fruit porridge. More than a single old woman would ever eat. "And ye knew I would be back! Thanks for the meal."

Finishing with his clothes, he hugged her frail form and helped putting bowls onto the table.

Auld Elma sniffed, offended. "And what will ye be doin' today? Leavin' this old woman behind to fend fer herself again?"

"Nay. I'll play with the kids later, and maybe gather firewood with them outside of town."

"Don't ye overdo it, yes? Now be a good boy and help yer Auld Elma carry that pot to the table."

He didn't bring the hot pot to the table. Instead, he filled their bowls directly at the hearth and brought them back, sitting down across from the woman.

"Now tell yer Auld Elma what happened to ye." She pointed her spoon at him, before filling it and putting it in her mouth. "Ye've never come back here with wounds."

"An accident," he said and shoveled the porridge into his mouth. It was a little bland, but the soft fruit pieces gave it a sweet note. Auld Elma silently stared at him, waiting for him to continue. He sighed. "I had an argument with the old man and was forced to join a group of adventurers. One of 'em triggered a trap I had disabled while I was still in it."

"Ye joined a group? Really? Oh, how great that is! My sister would be dancin' with joy if she could hear this!" Auld Elma looked joyful, raising her gnarled hands in a thankful prayer to the Spirits. But her mood immediately soured. "And ye didn't think to show them to yer Auld Elma? Where are they? Let me thank them fer accepting me fool boy into their group!"

"Ye know it's not the first group I joined. And it was only a temporary thing for one dungeon," he pouted and filled his bowl a second time. He hadn't known how hungry he had been.

"Fool boy!" Her broom rapped him on his head and he winced. "They cared fer ye while ye were wounded! Did ye ditch 'em when they didn't look? Eh? And were all nasty to them in the dungeon, too? Ye know it's the only reason people kick ye out of their little parties! 'cause ye're nasty to them!"

Crear quickly finished his second bowl and fled Auld Elma's scolding.

Of course he knew. But who in their right mind would want to work together with incompetent troll-fodder? Definitely not him. Besides, said troll-fodder would tie him down and any chance to fulfill his goal would be gone. He couldn't let that happen.

"Uncle Cre!" - "Play with us!"

Within seconds of leaving the shack, he was swarmed by children once more.

"That's why I'm here. But ye have to ask yer parents first. We'll go out of the city to play and gather firewood. Ask them if ye can come."

"Whaat! That's no fair!" cried some. Others quickly ran back to ask and returned to giggle at the slower ones and those who were not allowed to leave town with him. Before long, he had a small army of children surrounding him with expectant looks on their little faces. They were all armed with baskets.

Crear begged one family to lend him a basket, too. He had forgotten to snatch one from Auld Elma's place, and if he returned now, she would only nag at him and hit him with her broom. The adults smiled and waved them goodbye, going about their daily tasks.

Slinging the basket over a shoulder, Crear led the children out of the east gate. The guards there let them pass without problems, calling after them to return before nightfall, or they would have to sleep outside.

He sneered silently. No exceptions for the poor. But if a noble, or even a sorcerer rode in, they would hurry to open the gates even in the middle of the night.

But the thought was only brief. He led his merry band over the meadow and towards the forest. The children started running, chasing each other and making snowballs from the thin blanket covering the ground. Soon, snowballs were flying every which way. He dodged them when he could and took those that weren't aimed at anything vital. The kids celebrated every time they got a hit in, which was cute.

Reaching the forest, they swarmed out to gather small sticks and broken twigs from the ground. Crear leaned against every third tree, catching his breath.

They returned just after midday, his charges happy and exhausted. Their baskets filled to the brim. His leg was throbbing painfully, the fever slowly burning him up.

"Play with us again 'morrow!" and "See you 'morrow!" screamed the kids as they waved goodbye in the slums and filtered back to their respective homes.

Tomorrow... let's first heal my leg tonight.

Crear trudged back to Auld Elma. He had mending to do. Both on his clothes and his leg. And a nap.