He came in early, just before dawn, shrouded in fog. He went immediately to the inn, where he sat in the corner, a bundle of cloth, his face stony, eyes severe, waiting for the town to stir.
“Can I help you?”, the innkeeper frowned. It was too early in the morning for this. His wife had forgotten to take in the eggs this morning and there was a suspicious pool of liquid in the middle of the room from the night before that needed tending to.
“When does the festival start?” The voice was surprisingly melodic, softly rolling across his tongue, mismatched with the coarse, fraying cloak that hung on his body, mismatched with the carved harshness of his face. The lips barely moved and the innkeeper was startled. He sought to catch the stranger’s eye, but his eyes were shaded under a hood.
“It starts tonight. What do you have to do with it?” The innkeeper was surprised that the stranger knew about the town’s festival. It was a narrow tradition, and most of the townspeople thought it did not extend beyond the surrounding forest. And this stranger certainly looked like he came from beyond.
The stranger sighed, his shoulders depressed. He shook his head, laid his hand on his forehead, and grimaced, “I am the entertainment.”