Last night we sat there around his strange camp stove for hours. The night crept by slowly, without even a rising sun to signal its departure.
I could make out little of his form. Between his wide-brimmed hat, cloak, and steel plate mask there were few identifiable features. I noticed his fingers were capped with metal contraptions. How odd.
I remember talking to that stranger, and taking in the stove's warmth. I appreciated how it helped chase off the relentless chill of wet foggy air.
He let me try some drags from his pipe. Another pipe like it I never have seen. It was shaped like a stick and made of some warm metal. When I held it in hand I felt the rod heat up, boiling a vial at the end I could inhale from. It was smooth. Unnaturally so. It made me worry less about the night.
After that the stranger was more chatty. Like he thought I could be trusted. While my comrades slept in their bags the stranger told me stories of his past. What was true or embellished I would never know.
Before we'd left the next morning the stranger had disappeared out under the black cloaked canopy of the Rotwilds; leaving behind his stove and a single full vial of what he'd called "Sorcerer's Elixir".
How strange he was, and yet he showed me kindness.
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