It was past mid-day when the Wanderer passed through Rorikstead. He could be seen bent and hobbling up the easterly road. He was well known in that small farming village, for he had passed through many times before. The children knew him as a man of many stories, and often looked for his arrival expectantly. These were simple people, who didn’t bother themselves much with the doings of the wider world. As such, the children were always wanting for stories of dragons and wizards and great battles.
The call went up as soon as the Wanderer was spotted, and soon he was surrounded by excited children. He seemed reluctant at first, as if he was on his way somewhere important on some grand errand and could sacrifice no time to stop and spin tales, but eventually he relented. The road had wearied him greatly, and he could use the rest.
He sat at the foot of a great tree, off the road a ways, and slumped and grumbled until he was comfortable. The children sat around him, waiting eagerly to hear his story.