Shreder
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The Storyteller
A gnarled hand grips an equally gnarled walking stick, that lifts and plants itself in rhythm with the footsteps. Soft footsteps, cushioned by worn leather shoes, and barely audible amidst the fast-fading light of the evening. They are the footsteps of a man, a man in description of whom “well traveled” would be an understatement.
Despite the growing darkness he walks sure-footedly, as if he has walked down this winding forest path a thousand times before. At length the overhanging trees begin to thin out, and a light is visible in the distance. As the traveler approaches, the light is seen to be the glow emitted by a set of farmhouse windows.
He walks up, and knocks unhesitatingly on the solid wooden door. It is opened by a child of perhaps eight or nine years, who upon realizing who it is squeals for joy and swings the door open wide, shouting: “Mother! Father! The Storyteller is here!” The boy’s father steps forward and beckons the man in.
“What a pleasant surprise! You will join us for dinner?” He asks, though in truth he already knows the answer.
“The day is passing and night draws near. I would gladly partake with you the evening meal,” The Storyteller replies, stepping in and removing his battered hat and worn cloak, hanging them on wooden pegs beside the door.
“And I assume you will pay for your meal in the usual fashion?” The Father asks, though again this question is mere formality.
“I would gladly regale your family and workers with tales in exchange for the food you provide.” The Storyteller answers, completing the almost ritualistic exchange.
“Excellent, dinner will be served shortly.”
Some time afterward, when all have eaten their fill of the plain, home-cooked fare, the Storyteller rises from his chair to do his part. For hours after that, late into the night, he regales all present with stories: stories so enthralling and masterfully told that they draw the listener in and cast out of their minds everything else. The eyes of those listening remain fixed on the him, as he skillfully weaves for them his wonderful tales.
He is a master of his art, employing all the tricks that separate the truly gifted storyteller from the mediocre. His voice not only tells the story, it breathes life into it. He varies volume and changes cadence, never allowing his audience’s attention to wander.
At last, having told one final story, the Storyteller sinks back into his chair, signaling the end of the night’s entertainment. No one moves; all simply remain in their seats, their minds still wrapped in the stories they have heard.
“Truly we have been blessed tonight; your stories could entrance the highest kings.” The Father says at last, breaking the spell. “But it is late and the time for rest has come. Will you stay the night?”
“Gladly, though I must be on my way ere dawn’s first light doth break the sky.”
So all retire, their dreams that night filled with flickering remembrances of the stories.
And early the next morning, before anyone else in the house has yet awoken, the Storyteller sets out again. He cares not whence he goes; letting his feet upon the trail lead him where they will. He is not tied to any place, choosing instead to wander the world aimlessly, sharing his stories wherever he goes.
C&C
< Message edited by Shreder -- 11/30/2011 8:05:50 >
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