There are many whom the world dubs heroes. Men of courage and of passion, and of such strength as never would you imagine! But there are unsung heroes, men remembered by no one. These men? Hermits hidden in forests, gathering herbs, picking mushrooms!
Look closer at the Forest of Whispers, now! Look and you will see, squinting amongst thick vegetation, hidden behind three layers of linen vestments, woolen shirts and remains of what-have-you-s…a most assuming man. You would think that years of stuffing himself with roots and semi-poisonous berries would have put a dent in Klacius’ unabashed self-certainty.
They have not.
This man — and you would not know this if you judged him by the colorless rags he wears — was once a trader усшгno small amount of influence. His word, ’twas said, was weighed in silver; or sometimes, in gold. Well, not anymore.
Klacius speaks to himself often enough — as he picks these here poisonous mushrooms, he argues with himself, using three voices, all of them different in pitch and accent. Occasionally the languages shift, too but that happens less and less often; only when some fractured memory of the past lodges itself into the hermit’s chaotic mind do such skills of old manifest themselves.
He speaks of morality. Nay, not speaks — but argues; a never-ending argument that only ends in tears for him, which between us, are of no effect but to soften the hearts of such innocent observers foolish enough to believe in them.
Klacius argues with himself and then he mocks himself, and he is never quite certain why he does any of it but since when has that stopped anyone? As he keeps his tongue busy, dexterous fingers pick at herbs, foul old things intent for killing. A scratch, just a bit of skin breaking, would be enough for the poison within these leaves to take effect.
The band of trespassers that has proven a most inadequate neighbor is in dire need of a lesson in manners and he, Klacius, will teach them an important lesson. It will take some time for the herbs to dry but there is patience to this old hermit’s madness. A sprinkle of dried up bolchrash in their meal or in their ale, and the problem will solve itself.
He only has to wait.
Thank you for Reading! I started out with the intention of writing just another humorous piece, but ended up doing something a little different. I do think it ends up alright!
Despite popular belief, a hermit’s life is not always lonely.
This one is! Occasionally, at least!