Hiding
He hated going into town. But hunting in the Jundland Wastes was next to impossible, even if he'd been inclined to hunt, and the idea of trying to keep a garden so far beyond impossible as to be considered insanity. And he had to get supplies somewhere.
He never frequented the same merchant twice in a row – he didn't want to become a regular, one of those patrons who was known by name and chatted to casually.
He did his best to avoid anyone who seemed familiar – even now, he couldn't be certain that an Imperial spy wasn't hidden behind a seemingly-friendly face. Unlikely, he knew; he'd not seen a "Wanted" bulletins on himself for ages. But he hadn't kept hidden for fifteen years by being careless.
Despite all his meticulous planning and circuitous routes, people gradually began to notice him. They would, of course – people notice those who don't fit into the proper mold. But no-one seemed to have the faintest inkling of who he actually was.
"Crazy ol' Ben," he once heard a shopkeeper mutter to another patron in the shop. "You'd think the Sandpeople would have gotten him by now. Surprises me every time he shows up alive."
Surprised him, too. Surprised him every morning when he woke up, alive; alive and alone and the last of his kind