The old man wiped his hands on his apron and walked toward the door. The wooden floor creaked with each step. As he opened the heavy oak door, a chill wind brushed against his face. The winter air rushed into the house.
Outside the door stood a young man. He was a little taller than average, with shoulders that were not broad. He wore a brown coat. The coat was worn. The cuffs were frayed, and the shoulders showed patches where cloth had been mended. There were signs of repair near the chest as well. A few threads protruded. The color of the coat had faded from its original hue. It was fabric that had been exposed to sunlight and rain, soaked and dried many times over.
The man's hands were rough. The backs bore traces of small scars, and black soil clung beneath his nails. Beside his thumb lingered a deep green stain, the mark of crushed plant sap seeped in. His palms were hardened with old calluses.
"Good day to you."
The man bowed his head in greeting. His voice was clear.
The old man examined the man's face. It was a youthful face. The man appeared to be around thirty; his jaw bore a short beard, and fine wrinkles, as if tanned by the sun, settled around his eyes. Even faint traces of sweat rash remained on his forehead.
"You came to commission a portrait, did you?"
The old man asked.
"Yes."
The man replied.
"Come in."
The old man opened the door wider and let the man inside. The man crossed the threshold. Mud clung to his boots. The laces showed signs of having been tied and untied many times.
The man looked around the room. His gaze swept over the canvases hanging on the walls, the jars of pigments on the shelves, the mortar and paints on the workbench.
"My name is Jerin Hoffer."
The man said.
The old man paused for a moment. Hoffer. The name sounded familiar somehow. Something hazy stirred from memories long past. But it was unclear. The old man nodded slowly.
"Hoffer... hmm."
"Do you perhaps remember? It was a very long time ago. When I first registered with the adventurers' guild, you drew my portrait."
Jerin said.
The old man narrowed his eyes. He searched his memory. It was from long ago. How long? Perhaps a decade or more. In those days, he had often painted portraits for new recruits at the adventurers' guild. Dozens, maybe over a hundred. Faces blended together. Young faces. Tense expressions. Was this man one among them?
"So it was... My memory is dim."
The old man said honestly.
"That's only natural. It was so long ago."
Jerin smiled. It was not a forced smile.
Jerin unfastened a small leather pouch from his belt. He pulled the drawstring to open it. From inside, he took out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Unfolding the bundle revealed dried leaves. The leaves were small and round. The edges were serrated. A faint grassy scent emanated.
"These are Lacoë leaves. I gathered them while out collecting herbs. They make a fine tea when steeped."
Jerin extended the bundle to the old man.
The old man accepted it. He touched the leaves with his fingers. They were thin, as if they might crumble. The fragrance was pleasant.
"Thank you. Lacoë is not easy to come by."
"It's even rarer in winter."
Jerin said.
The old man emptied his teacup and poured out the remaining chamomile dregs from the kettle. He rinsed it clean, filled it with fresh water, and placed it over the hearth.
While the water warmed, Jerin looked around the house. On one wall, large and small canvases leaned against it, and the floor bore marks of dried paint. By the window stood a jar with brushes inserted and a faded scrap of cloth side by side. Beside the hearth, the kettle emitted steam with a gentle hum.
Soon, as the water began to boil, the old man unwrapped the bundle from Jerin. The subtle aroma of Lacoë leaves spread. He removed the kettle from the fire and floated a few leaves in it. A refreshing scent filled the room. It was clearer and cooler than chamomile.
"Drink with me. Sit down."
The old man said.
Jerin nodded and moved further into the room. The old man pulled over a chair and offered it to Jerin. Jerin sat. He straightened his back and placed his hands on his knees.
The old man took out two teacups. They were pottery cups. Fine cracks marred the surface, but they were serviceable. He poured tea from the kettle and handed one to Jerin.
"Thank you."
Jerin took the cup and sipped the tea. The warm steam touched his lips and soon moistened his mouth.
After a moment, the old man also lifted his cup and drank. A smooth flavor came first, with scarcely any bitterness.
The sensation of the tea sliding down his throat was subtly pleasing.
"You want a portrait painted?"
The old man asked.
"Yes."
"Preparation is needed. It will take some time."
The old man moved to his workbench. From the shelf, he took a clean canvas. It was medium-weight cotton fabric, stretched taut on a wooden frame.
He unfolded a wooden easel with three legs and set the canvas upon it. Spreading the legs firmly, he adjusted the height to just below eye level.
"Sit by the window."
The old man said.
Jerin picked up the chair and went to the window. He placed it beside the pane and sat. Sunlight slanted in from the side. One side of his face was brightly lit. The other fell into shadow.
"Turn your head a little to the left."
The old man said.
Jerin turned his head.
"A bit more."
He turned it further.
"Good. That's enough. Relax your shoulders."
Jerin eased the tension in his shoulders.
"Lift your chin slightly."
Jerin raised his chin.
"Paint it well, please."
Jerin said.
"I shall."
The old man replied.
The old man picked up a fine brush from a pottery jar. Opening a small wooden box beside it revealed bottles of various pigments neatly arranged.
From among them, he scooped a bit of reddish ochre powder and mixed it with a drop of glue water.
Standing before the canvas, brush raised, he gazed at Jerin's face.
He gauged the proportions: the distance from forehead to chin, the space between the eyes, the length of the nose, the position of the mouth.
As the brush tip touched the canvas, a thin line formed. He drew an oval to outline the face.
The line was very faint, applied with almost no pressure. Next, he drew a vertical centerline to divide the face in half. He added horizontal lines: one for the eyes' position. Below it, another for the nose's tip. One more for the mouth.
"What sort of requests do you take these days?"
"I always gather herbs."
"Then winter must bring few tasks."
The old man said.
The old man continued his questions without pausing his brushstrokes. It had long been his way when painting portraits. To prevent boredom from settling in, or to keep the expression from stiffening, he would converse, loosening the muscles of the face. For him, the words spoken to the one before the canvas were a tool more delicate than the brush drawing fine lines.
"No, sir. Herb prices rise in winter, if anything."
Jerin replied.
"Is that so?"
"They rise even more when snow falls. Some herbs become harder to find."
The old man moved his brush. He marked the eyes' positions. Two dots for the pupils. He outlined the nose. From bridge to nostrils. He drew the lips' line. The boundary between upper and lower.
"Are there herbs that appear only in winter?"
"A few. Some gain their potency only after frost descends."
Jerin's voice was calm.
The old man marked the ears' positions. Lines starting at eye level and ending at nose-tip height. He drew the jawline. A curve from ear to chin tip. He outlined the neck as well.
"Then do you only venture for herbs requested by the adventurers' guild?"
"Yes."
"No combat?"
"None. Combat... does not suit me."
Jerin paused briefly.
The old man did not stop his brush. He marked the flow of the hair. Locks covering the forehead, lines passing the ears to the nape. Fine lines overlapped.
"Do you work alone?"
The old man asked.
Jerin did not answer. Silence lingered for a moment. The old man waited, moving his brush. Jerin's eyes turned toward the window.
"...Yes."
Jerin said lowly.
"Have you always lived that way?"
"No."
Jerin's voice sank a little.
"I had companions once."
The old man set down his brush. He looked at Jerin. Jerin's expression had changed. The corners of his mouth drooped slightly. His eyes darkened.
"May I ask what manner of folk they were?"
"They were good folk."
Jerin said.
"We took a slime extermination quest together. Near the entrance of an abandoned mine. It was not overly difficult. Together, it held no fear."
Jerin slowly clenched and unclenched his hands on his knees.
"We hunted stone-shelled rabbits as well. Their hides were tough, arrows scarcely pierced them. Yet, surrounding one with three of us made it possible."
"You seem to have kept fine company."
"Yes, me, a friend skilled with the sword, another deft with the bow... The three of us were always together. We promised that one day we would adventure into Aquiln's Labyrinth."
A faint tremor mingled in Jerin's voice.
"We once escorted a merchant to Valla-Glas. The road was long and rugged. At night, we would lean against a tree off the path to sleep, and the wind pierced coldly. Yet it was bearable. My companions were always at my side."
Jerin paused. He drew in a breath. Exhaled slowly.
"And then one day... we accepted a Brunte flower gathering request. It was a rare bloom, well-paid. Greed took hold. I thought we could gather more in the forest's depths. My companions warned of the danger, but I did not heed them then."
Jerin's hands trembled. He balled them into fists. Veins stood out on the backs.
"We encountered a pack of gnoles. Eight of them, and we but three. Battle was unavoidable. The sword-wielder fell first. Stabbed in the belly, he collapsed, and in that moment, the archer shoved me aside, shouting to flee. In the end, I turned and ran, heeding his cry."
Jerin's voice cracked.
"I alone returned alive."
The old man said nothing. He looked at Jerin's face. Jerin bowed his head. His shoulders hunched.
"After that, I worked alone. I sought no more companions, accepted no combat quests. All that remained was gathering herbs. Not dangerous, and something I could do on my own."
"Are you not lonely?"
The old man asked.
"A little lonely. But I have grown accustomed."
Jerin lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed with red.
"If I join with no one, I lose no one again. I already lost them once... because of my mistake."
Jerin forced a smile. Only the corners of his mouth rose. His eyes did not smile.
"Working alone is not so ill. Unbound by time, no promises to keep. I can move as my heart leads. At times, solitude even feels comforting."
"Is that what you truly desire?"
The old man asked.
Jerin did not answer. He turned his head to look out the window. Winter sunlight illuminated his face.
"I do not know. It is the solitude I chose. I chose it for comfort. Yet now, I may regret it."
The old man picked up his brush again. He gazed at Jerin for a while. The worn coat, frayed cuffs, mended patches. All spoke of a long path walked alone.
"I shall continue painting."
The old man said.
Jerin nodded. He straightened his posture again.
The old man finished the underdrawing. More lines were added. The face's proportions were complete. Eyes, nose, mouth, ears, jawline. All in their places.
The underdrawing was done. The old man set down his brush. Then he took up a thicker brush beside it.
"Now I shall apply the underpainting. Do not move."
The old man said.
He began to paint reddish earth tones on the canvas. Starting with the face's shadowed areas. Under the eyes, beside the nose, beneath the chin. The brush swept across the canvas. Paint soaked into the fabric. A layer of pale red formed.
He thinned the paint for the lit areas. Forehead, bridge of the nose, high cheeks. He thickened it for the shadowed parts. Neck, behind the ears, under the jawline. The structure of light and dark emerged.
The old man rinsed his brush. The water turned faintly red and murky. He dipped it in paint again. He applied the mid-tones to the face. Between light and shadow. Softening the boundaries.
"The underpainting is complete. Now it must dry a little. Then I shall layer colors atop it."
The old man set down his brush.
Jerin relaxed his pose. He rotated his shoulders. Moved his neck side to side.
"Today..."
Jerin said quietly.
"Now, I am the only one left bearing the name Hoffer."
The old man looked at Jerin.
"My family is now me alone..."
Jerin's voice was low. It did not tremble. It was merely empty.