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Ian wandered into the firelight shortly after sunset. He looked like a man who knew no fear of the dark.
The traveling folk made him welcome at their fire, as they did all travelers under the moon. Were they not all children of the night?
But this man, this watchman, was filled to overflowing with a brooding bitterness that cloaked him in brittle anger and frustration. He was not a young man any longer, and as he removed his thin, cotton jersey to wash the trail dust from his back, the gory multitude of his scars were displayed for all to see.

His battered, silver crucifix threw back the firelight. He moved slowly, the muted gray in his short-cropped hair curling damply at the nape of his neck. He was wide shouldered and lean in those years of his life when most men would have been stocky; perhaps a fourth or fifth son on the way. But for him there was to be no family but the brotherhood of the Church. He had the hard-earned, worn wrinkles around his mouth and eyes of a man who had survived much sorrow, much horror. He had the look of a man who had long ago forgotten how to cry. His eyes were a tired, washed out gray.
The women of the traveling folk, colorful skirts flaring as they moved about their men, dished out hearty portions of hot beef broth and mugs of warm cider.
The weary watchman pulled on the last clean jersey from his travel sack while the women cleared a space for him at the fire. The shadowed, gleaming length of his sheathed sword was placed beside him as he sat at the place made for him.
The watchman silently accepted an overflowing bowl of the broth. He was famished, and looked it.
Time passed swiftly for the little ones, and one by one they began nodding off, falling asleep in stacks and piles around the warmth of the fire and the love of their parents.
Then, with the rising of the moon, a woman came from the direction of the tented wagons. She was beautiful, dark of hair and fair of skin. She startled in surprised recognition upon catching sight of the watchman.
He looked up, smiled wearily. One way or another it would be ended soon. One way or another. His eyes were sad and cloudy as though he would cry, if he could only remember how...
The traveling folk pulled out their fiddles, their flutes, and their tambourines as they prepared to weave tales with their music.
"Sing us a song," they chanted to the old woman who kept the stories and the names of the people, slapping their thighs in rhythm. "Sing us a song of sorrow. Sing us a song

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