It was dark.
	Marty sat in the alleyway outside Rannoch�s home, trying to meditate.  The air was
punctuated by chanting and frogsong; the soft growl of animal/people.  No visions or
answers would come tonight.  There was too much to fill her mind....
	Lost. She was lost in the light without darkness.  Lost.  And outsider--Outside of
Death.
	She rose and turned down a winding alleyway.  The huts here were built closer
together.  She passed a sound of wood-on-wood, and ignored Bloedwudd�s singing which
punctuated it.  In another hut, the Daughters of the Moon did their laundry. Then:
	�Martina--� It was a hiss like wind, thickly accented and inviting.
	She turned towards the sound.  It came from a small hut built slightly apart from
the others.
	�Martina--Lost One--�  it hissed again;  beckoning.
	She approached the hut, unafraid, as she had been in the tunnels.  Fear had no
place here.  She knew she was safe.
	The hut was lit softly inside.  Tall candles burned in several large wrought-iron
holders.  Small crosses, etched with perfect attention to detail, covered the interior�s walls.
Old sepia daguerreotypes littered the table at the hut�s center, bathed in shadow.  A
shadow displaced itself from them and moved across her face.
	�Poor lost soul--� the shadow hissed.
	�Hello? Who�s there?� Marty inquired.
	�Another soul, lost by the wayside, that did not know its place.�
	He seemed to materialize from the shadows.  He was very tall, and old. His hair
was white gossamer--like the web of a spider--and it fell down his back in two long braids. 
His form was cloaked in a red silk robe, which was undecorated except for two large
golden crosses on its front.  His face and hands were wrinkled white. But his eyes--his
eyes� muddy blue held the sparkle of youth.
	�Who are you?� Marty asked.  She felt as if she already knew.
	�I am the Hermit. Beyond that, my name is not important.�
	His voice was touched with the dark accent of Bistritsa and the Carpathians.  He
smiled--a jagged, wolfish smile.
	�We have much in common, you and I,� he said, motioning her to a chair as he sat
himself.  �We are both outsiders. I, however, have found a place--for a time.  I am no
longer lost.�
	�I�m not lost!� Marty shouted vehemently.
	He laughed--a crashing, hissing sound like dirt falling in a newly dug grave.
	�You are truly lost.  What you do not know is the only thing you know, and where
you are is where you are not!�
	She stared at the old man, dazed.
	�What did you really expect? Did you think we all could be part of the ecstasy? 
Did you think us all Fools?�
	He laughed again--that seething, graveyard laugh.
	�Martina, Martina!  We cannot all have the same epiphany! You have put your
faith in the words of others too long--made them law! Unbind yourself! Open your eyes! 
We cannot all have the ecstasy! Some us must be the Tellers of Tales!�
	Marty was confused.  She could feel her fear welling within her. Fear at this
strange man�s words;  the strange truths they held.
	�In every ecstasy, there is a tale to be told. Martina, you must tell that tale....�
	And then, with a flutter of unseen wings and shadows, he was gone.