Traveling the Youngest Land

Weather: Hot, windy, and scattered showers. Several clouds in the sky
Time : 3 Pm


The smell of industry. Smoke, filthy air, left uncleaned for nature has no hold in this city.  Well, mostly. This place was New York City, but there is one place here, a park, where they keep trees and the like. Much to this old travelers joy. Or rather...it would be to his joy if he weren't passed out in an alleyway. The man was scrawny and smelled of alcohol. His face cloaked by the ragged brown leather of his hood, but it was obvious he had not shaved in a while, and to those who got closer to him, would note he had not taken a bath in probably weeks. His large crooked nose and equally large cleft chin fit the man whose hairs were counting down as it was thin and oily. The hairs he had trailed down to his chest out of the rags he wore, and to those who dared to look a poor man in the eye, he had two almost white looking eyes, and beneath the hood one would see his equally proportional large ears, and the mole on his left cheek.

To say this man was a good site to see would be untrue. He wore bandages about his feet, which tapped out of time to a song coming from the apartment near the park. Showing he did enjoy the music, despite that he lived without a home. This is further noted, as his lack of shoes is replaced by bandages that lack covering his heel or toes, while his  hands are covered in much the same manner. Next came to his other coverings. He wears some ratty looking jeans with a blown out left knee, and his shirt was a thin piece of fabric that looked more like a black bed sheet with holes cut out of it. He was a ratty man, for even beneath the clothing, he looked scrawny, his ribs showing. But he seemed to be slightly well liked, as often people left him things at his little tree he stayed under during the day.

Today, the weather was hot and beat down on his leather cloak he kept, the leather itself slightly warm, but the heat didn't bother the man. He had spent to many years in the heat to be bothered by it. And it seemed that more people had come today to listen to him. To this he nodded, as he withdrew a old looking flute, and began playing it. The song of the flute from Babylon. An old song for sure. It was a song about a foolish kind who left his city unguarded, when nature swept it away into the sea. He played with passion, his old looking fingers quick and precise. What was it that always made him play this song.... He knew why, but it wasn't like he could just tell these people. So he let them pass him by, the coins in their pockets turning to gold as he let the influence of his flute pass over the ores in their pockets, making them pure and golden. They came for this purpose. For anyone who stopped and listened to the old man. Anyone who passed the small silver coins into the flute case he had, would be rewarded more than a hundred fold. He was a bit of a legend around these parts, as he only came to this spot once a month.

But he had his share of trouble. Finding a decent place to sleep, to rest, without people trying to kick him in his sleep and make him move. He let a tear pass his eye at the thought, his playing continuing the whole time as his dry cracked lips let the ever familiar shape form for them, the air passing his lips. In his mind he laughed a bit. Oh how kings become beggars huh? But he kept playing under the old oak on the east side of the park. It's all he really wanted. To play and accept the meager gifts of food and water, and occasionally people gave him alcohol, claiming it will help his pain. But it took a lot of alcohol to cure his pain, but he accepted it all the same. So for now... he played without seeming to take a breath, but in truth he simply mastered circular breathing. A method of breathing where you take air in through the nose, and breath out at the same time. It took him some time, but now he never had to stop.... he never had to stop the lamenting song his flute released.