An elderly man is nestled into his rocking chair, gently rocking back and forth. His cane gently hanging onto the arm of the chair, lightly dragging against the floor occasionally. In his hands is a small block of wood, deftly being shaped into art by the work of a knife, held in his other hand.

Around his old fashioned chair is an array of wood chips, some small, some large. Some of them are cut straight, while others twirl into spirals and loops. The occasional gust of wind would blow some away, fluttering off the gentleman’s poorch.

Each slow gust of wind, the man’s voice would quake for a bit. He would stop his whittling momentarily to pull the blanket covering his legs tighter, and snuggle deeper into the blanket covering his back.

Beside him sat a log table. Three pegs connected three legs to the table, with the three legs combining to hold the tabletop up. Nothing more than a simple wooden table, but the knicks and burns upon its surface held many stories, most simple and boring, but the occasional knick would be just long enough and in an odd enough shape to make one wonder who would ruin such a masterpiece.

On the old pine table sat a series of knives, some had blades a little less an inch long with a fine tip. Others were longer and curved forward. Some of them weren’t blades at all, rather, they were sheets of metal with barbs on them, used for smoothing the wood to avoid splinters.

Beside all of these stood one of his prized possessions. A long pipe, foreign letters, symbols, and runes cleanly swept across its frame. Its rich, dark brown swirls captivated any that looked at it. Combine that with the wafts of smoke that came from the open top, as well as the whiskers of the user, made for a enticing and almost illusionary appearance.

When one looked into the smoke, they could almost see the stories in the smoke. Every word and detail outlined in the grey plumbs of air. Hypnotic would be the best choice of words to describe it.

Moving onto the man behind the pipe. Behind the bushy facial hair was a gentle smile that would calm even the most defiant of children. Wrinkles framed his face, around his eyes and around his smile. A long beard hid them away, and his bushy eyebrows almost his even his eyes.

The two blankets he had contrasted each other. The one on his legs, while covered in flakes of wood, also had numerous patches with different pictures and images stitched into them. “Each patch holds a different story, and each hole that was patched is its own story.” He would say. The one on his shoulders were thick and adorned with many rigid symbols on the outline in a golden thread. In the middle of the thick blanket was a large tree with branches splayed across it. Of all the blankets he owned, these two were his favorite, always referring to them as his ‘storytime blankets’.

His clothes were also interesting. Not interesting as in looking fantastic or outstanding, but more so lived in and used. Every day he covered his short, frazzled hair with a dark brown cabby cap. On hot days he would wear a thin sleeveless shirt that tucked into his grey shorts, which were usually still hidden by the blanket, even in the hot weather. In the colder weather he would wear an old, green button up dress shirt. The cuffs were frayed and the buttons were missing, but he didn’t care. He was always happy.

Despite his excitement when telling stories, he wasn’t a very active man. Barely able to get around, he would hobble around with his cane, waving to any who greeted him.

This man was loved by many. From across the world, they would come to listen to him tell a story and whittle them something interesting. He would try to give his arts away for free, but they would refuse and force bits upon him. He supported himself easily with these funds, but never found a need for money. He preferred the company.

He had seen everything in his long life, and he was happy to share his stories. In his youth he had traveled all across his world, and here, he had traversed his land as well. Two worlds of rich stories and adventures to tell.

Having been across such expanses of lands leads to him learning many skills. His work with a knife was next to none, his story telling beating even the unicorns of old, and his pipe packing beating a satyr easily. Hell, back in his day, he could even outdrink a minotaur.

But today, he say alone. Whittling away at the block of wood and whistling a soft tune to himself. The mid winter day kept him a comfortably chilly and the sun warmed his tired legs through his blanket.

Setting his knife down, as well as the half carved statuette, his bones creak and crack as he reaches for the old whittled pipe. After giving it a light tap upside down onto the table, he reaches for an older box kept hidden under the blanket and in a wooden pocket on the back of his rocking chair.

Setting the pipe down on his lap, he brings the box up and looks at it. The same symbols on the pipe could be found on the ornately shaped box. The box barely fit in his hand, easily covering up his withered fingers with its larger frame.

Setting that down on his lap as well, he opens it and stares down at the contents happily. Crushed brown leaves fill the inside of the box, giving off a sweet, almost hickory scent. He pinched out a bit from the box and placed it into the pipe, followed by a smaller pinch, and then another.

Carefully and deliberately packing the pipe, he brings the long handle up to his lips and takes a small puff to see how well he had done. Clearly satisfied with his work, he pulls out a small box of matches from his chest pocket and lights the pipe.

Finally satisfied with the pipe, he places the wooden artifact in his mouth and puts everything away. Then, leaning back in his chair, he rocks back and forth. Looking into the fields around his cabin, he lazily smokes his pipe while enjoying the sights. The occasionally animal would run past, some curious of the creaking chair and coming to investigate.

As he sits and waits, he hears a faint ‘mew’ and looks down to see his little companion sitting at his feet. Little, being more of a ironic joke, the cat was quite large. Looking down at it one would assume they were being attacked by an orange bush.

“Come up here little one, there is always room for you.” The old man says, patting his lap and wiping the dust and wood chips off in an attempt at enticing the cat to join him.

With a ‘mrow’ and a couple tries, the man lets out a sign and leans forward, picking the cat up around its midsection and setting it on his lap.

“You’re getting up there in the years, aren’t you Jazz?”

The cat merely lets out an indignant meow and curls up tighter, causing the man to coo at his little buddy and bunch he blankets up around him.

With both himself and his cat nestled in nice and cozy, he goes back to rocking and puffing on his pipe, letting hours pass as he lets his arms and fingers rest.

As he smokes longer and longer, his eyes grow weary, the lids becoming heavier and heavier. He shuffles the blanket off his shoulders and takes his hat off, setting it on the table. He rubs his hands through his hair, or what was left of it, and wipes his eyes. The cold already setting into his old bones.

With that quick wake up he sets his cap back onto his head and starts rocking again, this time focusing on petting his seldom companion. Looking out into the clearing he notices the sun having gone down considerably since before.

“Ahh, my favorite time of day. You going to stay here and watch with me jazz?” He says, petting the ginger cat and giving it a soft kiss on the head, getting a soft bat on the nose as an answer.

“Good, good. Everything's better with a friend.” He says, giving a few quick puffs to make sure his pipe was still burning.

“Quite, would you care for another companion?” Comes from his side, accompanied by the flutter of wings.

“Of course Luna, you know you and Tia are always welcome here.” He says, picking his cane up off of the arm of the chair, hooking it around the leg of a nearby chair, and pulling it up beside him.

“Why thank you, what a gentlestallion.” The Alicorn princess says, bowing and sitting onto the chair

“Of course Luna, anything for a princess.” He says, hooking his can back onto his rocking chair.

The two of them sit on the porch, enjoying the nippy air and the sun falling past the horizon.

“You know, I had this porch built like this just so I could look at the sun every night.” The elderly man says pointing the mouthpiece of the pipe out and waving it around.

“I do know, you happen to tell me that everytime I visit you.” The princess of the night says, covering her face with a hoof and giggling to herself.

“Yeah, well I’m just making sure you don’t forget!” He says popping the lip back into his mouth.

They return to silence, letting the whistling of the wind and rustling of the branches fill their ears with the music nature.

“I hate this song, would you mind turning the gramophone on with your magic, Lulu?”

“Of course not, is it still in the same place?”

“Always is, I don’t like moving things, you know.”

“I know old man, I know.” The princess says, her horn lighting up.

From inside the cabin the sound of a banjo, guitar, and piano fill the cabin, flowing out from the opened windows and cracked door.

A smile pushes the whiskers on his face up and he begins tapping his foot to the beat of the music.

“Did I ever tell you where this song came from?” He asks, his fingers rapping against the armrests. Even the cat appears to be engrossed in the tune, its tail waving side to side with the rhythm.

“No Grandpa Baccy, I don’t believe you have,” The princess says with a knowing smile, “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Well, it started back in 1913, in my world that is, a man that went by the name of Dick Burnett wrote a song called ‘Farewell Song’...” The old man says, lightly waving his hand about while stringing together the tale of an old song whos days had long passed.

Author's Note

Bet y'all didn't expect this, did ya? Three stories? Damn right! I must be a masochistic at this point.

As usual, like, comment, dislike, send me death threats, I don't care.

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