Have you heard of "The Painted Heart?" (1/3)

–Earlier that same day–

At the edge of the forest stood a rundown hut belonging to an old man known in the village as the drunkard. As the sun began to rise, a faint ray of sunlight shone through the hut's roof. A wrinkled, weather-beaten hand emerged under a tattered blanket, reaching for a clay bottle beside it. The coolness of the container was familiar to the man, and it jolted his senses.

With the bottle in hand, he uncorked it with practiced ease, the pungent scent of fermented berries filling the air. He took a long swig, the harsh liquid burning a welcome path down his throat.

After his quick drink, he pushed himself up from his makeshift bed of leaves and animal skins, his joints protesting the movement with pops and groans. Despite the challenges of age, his once formidable body now bore countless scars, a testament to a life lived. He stretched, his gaze sweeping across the small room for a shirt to wear.

After dressing, he stepped outside and felt the sun's rays shining through the trees. He noticed a familiar, well-worn path from the forest's edge to the village. He slung the empty bottle over his shoulder and started shuffling down the path.

He was intimately acquainted with this walk, every twist and turn etched into his memory like the back of his hand. The journey to his usual spot was a mere 10 minutes, a familiar rhythm that brought him comfort. As was his daily ritual, he made his way to the village square. Upon arrival, he would step into the tavern, ready to spend the day in his usual routine. He settled onto a worn bench, his weathered face blending seamlessly into the background.

As noon passed, the harsh glare of the noonday sun illuminated the cobblestone square, warming the air and drawing a lazy hum from the bees flitting between flowerpots. A middle-aged soldier, whose armor gleamed like a beacon, strode purposefully across the square. Having just finished another recruitment notice for the northern war front, he felt strangely out of place amidst the peaceful bustle of the square.

As the soldier strode around the square, his gaze was drawn towards a lone figure seated on a worn bench; his clothes were a mishmash of faded colors, hung loosely on his frame. The old man and his abnormal clothing were shrouded in an aura of solitude, making him an anomaly in the vibrant scene.

Intrigued by the old man, the soldier steered his course towards the bench. As he drew closer, he saw a clay bottle resting carelessly beside him. The acrid tang of fermented berries, a familiar scent from his travels, tickled his nose.

Emboldened by a soldier's natural bravado, Darach offered a friendly greeting. "Good morning, sir. Enjoying the fine weather, are we?"

The old man remained motionless, his gaze fixed on a group of children chasing pigeons in the square. Only a slight twitch of his weathered hand, a dismissive wave, acknowledged the soldier's presence.

Momentarily taken aback, he cleared his throat. "Not much for conversation, I see," he said, a touch of amusement lacing his voice.

He wasn't used to being ignored, especially not so blatantly. Perhaps a different approach was needed, he mused. "Let me introduce myself. My name is Darach. And you are?"

The old man eventually moved, turning his head gradually to reveal a pair of hazel eyes that appeared to have experienced countless battles. Those eyes locked onto Darach for an instant, a spark of annoyance flickering within them. Then, dismissively, the old man raised his hand, palm facing outward as if swatting away a fly.

Darach's smile vanished, replaced by a flash of irritation. This old man, whoever he was, seemed to take pleasure in his unapproachability. "As you wish," Darach muttered, turning to depart. Stealing one final glance at the old man's figure.

Darach's boots kicked up dust as he marched away from the unresponsive old man. The soldier's curiosity weighed heavy on his mind. There was something familiar about the man, a hidden depth in his eyes that Darach couldn't ignore. But the dismissive gesture still rankled.

He spotted a plump woman readying herself towards the well, a flour-dusted apron tied around her ample waist. She was likely the village baker, Darach thought, his stomach giving a timely rumble. He approached her with a two-pronged strategy: information gathering and lunch acquisition.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Darach called out, his voice polite yet firm. The woman turned, a floury smile spreading across her face.

"Well, hello there, soldier! There's a fresh face around here. Can I interest you in some warm bread?" she said, returning to her shop to bring a balancing tray of golden loaves.

Darach's stomach rumbled again, providing the perfect opening. "That sounds fantastic, ma'am. But before I indulge," he said, reaching for a coin purse at his hip, "I was hoping you could help me with something."

The woman's smile softened. "Depends, but I'm always happy to help a soldier," she said, settling the bread on a nearby stool. "What's on your mind?"

Darach gestured towards the old man on the bench. "See that fellow over there? The one with the mishmash of faded colored clothing."

The woman squinted at the figure and then back at Darach. "Oh, that old man?" she said, her voice thick with a local accent. "He had been here ten years, come spring. He keeps to himself mostly, though sometimes you see him muttering to the trees."

'Ten years?' Darach thought to himself while raising an eyebrow. "Nobody knows anything more about him, not his name, where he came from, or why he's here."

The baker shook her head, dusting flour off her apron. "Nope. He just showed up one day, looking like he'd had the soul sucked from em'. He has yet to age a bit since then, though. Some folks whisper he's touched by magic, but that's just silly talk."

Darach pondered this. 'Ten years of appearing out of thin air and remaining unchanged? It was certainly curious.' He thanked the baker and bought a warm piece of bread. The warm bread weighed pleasantly on his hand. He took a bite, savoring the taste, but his mind focused on the old man.

Darach finished his bread, and the midday sun beat mercilessly on the village square. He watched the old man, who remained frozen on the bench like a weathered statue. Darach felt a new hunger stirring within him – a hunger for a mystery. Throughout the day, he hovered nearby, observing the old mand from a distance.

The old man sat still, watching the children play and listening to conversations with disinterest. Occasionally, he would take a swig from his clay bottle. When a young couple walked hand in hand through the square, Darach noticed a flicker of longing cross the old man's face. As the young couple moved around the square, collecting flowers from a nearby shop and enjoying their food, the old man stared at them longingly. Darach wondered if it was a memory of a lost love that haunted him.

As the sun descended below the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the square, the villagers began to disperse one by one, leaving behind a once-bustling scene that now lay deserted and silent. Finally, the old man rose from the bench, his movements slow and deliberate, as if every step he took burdened his frail body. With a heavy sigh, he slung the empty bottle over his shoulder and made his way home.

As Darach noticed the old man's movement, he pushed himself off the wall where he'd been leaning. The old man had already started walking towards the edge of the village, and his destination was the path leading to the forest edge.

Darach's heart pounded erratically as he stood there, contemplating the situation. As a soldier, he had been trained to follow orders without question. Still, the mysterious old man had stirred something deep within him. He felt a sense of urgency, a pull he couldn't quite explain, compelling him to follow.

Despite his apprehension, Darach took a deep breath and decided to take a chance. He adjusted his sword belt for silent movement and started after the old man, keeping a respectful distance. The setting sun cast an eerie leading to the forest, casting long shadows like phantoms. The air grew thick with damp earth and decaying leaves, starkly contrasting the sweet smells of baking bread and cooking fires that hung over the village.

Darach's grip tightened even more on his sword hilt, his knuckles turning white. He was a seasoned soldier, trained to face even the most daunting foes. Still, this time, he felt an unfamiliar sense of danger from the dense forest. He was no longer on familiar ground, no longer following orders. He was a lone wolf pursuing a solitary old man, and the forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a showdown.