--Flashback—
The old crippled man slowly made his way to a table, after paying the innkeeper for a room for the night. He tore his old hood from his head as he sat down at an empty table in the back corner. There were not many people in the Common Room that night, but those who were there were sitting quietly, drinking ale or playing cards. They spoke in hushed voices, but did not seem to notice the man come in. All save one.
He was fiddling with an unlit candlestick on the table when she approached him. He scraped the wax off with his unclean fingernails, and lightly tapped it on the wooden surface. His gaze was intent upon the candle, and he did not see her come.
'Baléd,' she said quietly, standing close. He didn't seem to hear, so she spoke his name louder. 'Baléd!'
The old man looked up, setting scraped candlestick pack in its' place. 'Oh, I'm sorry. I am looking for someone. She is called Krita. Have you seen her?'
'Shut up you old fool,' she said. 'I am Krita!' She sat down across from him. 'I suppose you have forgotten your messages, too?' She said it with sarcasm.
'Oh, now, girl, you know I am an old man!' he said to her. 'Don't criticize me! I am not in the mood. Don't go a-talkin' bad about me, I have been through too much to get here.'
'Alright Baléd, I won't,' she said to him, more politely. She neatly folded her hands in her lap. 'What happened to your leg?'
Baléd grunted as she shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 'It doesn't matter, but its' hurt bad. I don't think I can make the next errand. I can't ride nor walk, it hurts so!
Krita rolled her eyes, but she pitied the man. She was already packed and ready, anyway. She knew he would make up an excuse so he would have to travel again, even if it meant hurting himself. 'Old fool,' she thought. 'Alright then, Baléd,' she said. 'I will go back, in your stead. But first, tell me news of the South, please?'
After Baléd and Krita had finished discussing plans and news, they both retired to their beds. Krita sighed, as she pulled the rough covers over her. She would leave, again, at dawn the next morning.
--End of flashback—
And so it had always been. Leaving, returning, traveling, and she hated it. She wanted to scream. But instead she scooped up her things and put them back in her knapsack. She then crept up behind the brush on the bank, waiting for the lone horse to come.