Three wooden carts wheeled upan ice and dirt path, their tops covered with white tarps showing the outlines of bits and edges. Snow crunched underfoot as horses heaved and wagons screeched, melt trickled and men popsicles.


    Those atop the carts wore feathered caps and bright coloured coats, ever so often tugging on the reins when a horse strayed. Merchants never like to waste time, so in the meanwhile they corrected accounts, exchanged information, planned future propositions, etc. The ones whotrudged alongside the caravan preferred practicality to posturing, clad in varieties of leather armours and padded overcoats. They let their sheathes do the talking.


    Ernin blew clouds of mist into the air,swirling and tumbling until it dissipated. He squinted. No matter where he looked, the sun always caught his eye. Light glanced off from surfaces of snowon the ground and the hills and the trees. In an attempt to protest his lack of privacy, heshaded his eyes with flattened palms.


    However, one does not simply become invisible if they cannot see the other.


    One of the merchants, a pot bellied man with face red from chill or drink, took one look at Ernin andchuckled.


    "See something interesting? You''ve been staring for a while now." He asked.


    Erninshivered, straightening up to present some order of discipline.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "N-no sir, nothing really. I''m just.. taking it all in."


    The pudgy merchant raised one eyebrow, then nodded in understanding. Craning his head towards the snowcapped peaks, he tipped his hat slightly.


    "Aye, I was like that too on my first trip. Something about the mountains that just brings out awe. Somethinglarger than yourself."


    Indeed. Hundreds of years may pass yet the mountains will last, witness to countless travels, countless conflicts. Old folk tales say mountainsare the gateway to the afterlife.


    "Human troubles seem insignificant in the eyes of the mountain."


    The merchant paused to think of a response. "Best to deal with troubles of your own scale." Heanswered after some time, taking out an iron canteen. "To drink or not to drink..." He held it out to Ernin.


    "No thanks sir." said Ernin. "Don''t wanna get into the habit of drinking on the job."


    "You sure? I don''t mind." He laughed. "It''s good to get familiar with new folks. Especially folks who might be the only thing between me and a blade to the gut."


    "Even more reason to wait, how well you think I could defend you piss drunk?"


    He paused, seriouslypondering the question. "Ha! Convinced me then. I''ll buy you a pint when we get to town." He said.Taking a swig, he sighed with content.


    He''ddrunk sloppily, on closer glance wet patches stained the merchants fancy garments.


    Ernin did not like the prospect of chaperoning a fat drunk, but money was money. He''d barely had enough for warm boots. It also wouldn''t hurt to ''get familiar'', reputation travelled far. A good word leads to better jobs and better pay.


    "What was your name again, sir?" Ernin asked.


    "It''s Mister Bruwen to you, or just sir.Don''t use both though, I hate it when people call me ''Sir Bruwen''."