the chase

The tavern was dark, the ale flowed freely, and the jesting was coarse. Exhausted farmers, smiths, and soldiers gathered together, united in universal retreat from the hassles of life and struggles of survival. And so the ale, the grog, the beer and wine flowed. It was quaffed, sipped, chugged, guzzled, and slurped. The smiths bought drinks for the farmers, the farmers bought drinks for the soldiers, and the soldiers bought drinks for themselves.1

But one solitary figure did not join the merriment; one character was not engaged in the drunken antics. He sat in the corner, an amused smile playing about his face as he devoured a full meal and watched the behavior of the spiraling drunks. A chuckle escaped his lips at a howled limerick, a complete laugh at the graceless tumble of an inebriated smith from bar top to oaken floor. And so as the tavern ebbed and swelled like the living sea, he ate his meal. A full meal. A half of a game hen. Three bowls of thick beef stew. A mountain of mushrooms, gravy abounding, and to wash it down? Not ale or grog, no brandy or mead, but water plain. For his man could tolerate no dulling of his senses, no blunting of his wits, no haze in his mind's eye. For despite his mirth, regardless of his entertainment, he was at that tavern for no pleasure purpose. No draw of joyous abandon had called him thus. 2

Rather, he found himself in that tavern, in that lonely outpost town, in the dead of night, for a simple and basic purpose: nourishment. All locations but lonely tavern with riotous patrons had long since closed their doors. And so he sat amidst the glee and mindlessness, and ate his meal. 3

And waited.4

Because what he hid behind the facade of carefree enjoyment of his settings, behind a carefully constructed wall of epicurean delight, was a brooding. A foreboding gnawed at him. Because the secret he kept was a terrifying one indeed. A secret of dire circumstances. He was being followed. He was pursued by enemies both bold and subtle, clever and brutish. The only enemies who could pursue him, truth be told. For he was a master of evasion, a genius of escape. But that which followed him, those that pursued him, were his equal opponents. Masterminds of capture and containment, savants of chase and pursuance. 5

And so, like a lightning quick and mind-bendingly complicated dance, they engaged each other. The man fleeing, utilizing all the techniques and abilities, skills and stratagems available to him. He fled across the land, headed for a single goal.6

And his enemies responded in turn. They unleashed their resources, unchained their intellects and capabilities, and they gave chase.7

Across the whole breadth of the land, they had danced. Soldiers after a thief one day. A scorned lover after a mistress another, a repentant brother after his long lost fraternal fellow yet another day. No morning found the status quo intact. They exchanged pieces and situations like chess masters in the heat of dual. The only public testaments to this clash of titans a few whispers of disjointed followings, a spatter of horse-tracks, a bent blade of grass, a lingering scent. 8

And it was the instigator of this chase, the escapist, the fleeing man himself, who sat in that tavern in the dark and dead of morning-night, savoring his brief rest, the incredible rarity of a leisurely meal. And to the common mind it seems a poor choice of gambits. A sad and sorry decision indeed to tarry in the face of chase. But this man was no common mind, no mere theoretical escape artist. He was the master, and the wisdom of his current actions was sound as an ancient oak. For in order to escape, one cannot allow the rules to remain fixed, one cannot simply stand for the status quo. His pursuers expected him to run. They knew, after endless months of chase, to look for the rushing figure, the hastening and solitary passer-through. And thus, in the breaking of such paradigms, one can achieve the holy-grail of flight, the perfect end of escape: invisibility. No chasers as skilled as the ones who followed him would dare to dally about in taverns and pubs. For they had seen his mettle, they had witnessed his inestimable talent. And they would expect from him every master-move imaginable. 9

But one thing they would never expect, the one thing outside of their schema of this target is that he would make a foolish mistake, a petty faltering such as to linger in a pub. And so, true to his genius, he did exactly what they would never expect of him. He reverted to foolish and simplistic gambits. Because while complicated, difficult schemes can overwhelm simple plots, so can simple plots slip past their complex elders.10

And so the chase progressed.11