Justin is heard for a while before he is seen strolling slowly up the road towards the Convent. He is playing a small flute, hand carved by himself some days ago, and is slowly getting towards the end of the classic folk tune he started to play some hours ago.
His playing would cause someone who knew the tune some pain, because every single note would emit at least three times as Justin backtracked over the bars to repeat and improve upon his performance.
Justin is known for a way behind where he walks. He is on the walk - not to be confused with on the run - from a small village no small number of miles from him. A small confusion of an understanding between himself and a local farmer had resulted in him being quietly but persuasivly asked to leave, though the farmers daughter had other ideas. Since that day a couple of weeks ago, Justin has been wandering in a more or less straight line towards Monrroyo, playing his tunes and telling his tales for food and bedding at every village along the way. He doesn’t know he’s heading to the convent, all he knows is that inside his head is an arrow pointing due that-a-way.
He is tall, thin and with a nest of dusty brown hair. The rest of him is covered by what was once a cloak, but is now simply a way of holding a mass of brightly coloured patches together. When he speaks, it is with a voice like warm golden syrup, a storyteller’s voice that he lacks either the will or ability to turn off. A sack upon his back holds his worldy belongings - a few rations, tinder & flint, some water, a larger and more intricate flute and a couple of knives to carve others.
He has a vague idea that Magi have been known to appreciate music and tales, and so is deliberately heading conventwards right now in the hope that someone will display appreciation in the form of heat, food and shelter. Any two will do, though he’s getting slightly sick of rabbit.
Either way, it’s a direction, and a direction is better than no direction, or something, and he’ll be there in a couple of minutes anyway.