"Thy clothes are not as ours. Thy skin is dark from rays of
sun, and here there is no sun. And thee speaketh strangely, with
words and accent unknown in this land." She stopped, a bemused
look on her face.
"What call you this land and its people? What is your name?"
She smiled at his questions.
"This is the world of Brume, and we are named Brumians. As for
me, you may call me Mist. It is only a title, not my name. Our
names we hold sacred, and to give them to others invites dire
consequences. Yes, to Mist I shall answer."
"Well, I suppose I should likewise be as reticent. Anyway, my
name is . . ."
Quickly she put her hand to his lips. "Speak it not again! You
are a stranger, a sojourner in a strange land, and its customs
are not of your world. You need not believe in our customs, but
do not needlessly court danger. I shall name you."
She walked around him, a smile touching her lips. "Thou art
tall, youthful, strong. Thou traveleth from far lands to our
world. I name thee Wanderer."
She opened the back window and the white vapors of fog crept
in. Sliding a small door to the side she removed a pot and some
utensils. Toward the center of the room she removed a block of
floormat, revealing a pit in which firewood lay.
Soon the room was warmed, and the aroma of a thick soup
tantalized his nostrils. Gladly did he eat, little noticing that
only spoonsful remained for her. "Ah, you cook like my own
mother! What meat is this?"
"Do not concern yourself.
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