Merelas Posted July 5, 2004 Report Share Posted July 5, 2004 It was quiet with the sort of pregnant, expectant silence that came just before or after a performance that promised to be truly great. In this case, it was the former. The man was known simply among the patrons of this inn as the storyteller. Some of the more pompous might refer to him as a “historian” or a “scholar”, but to those who knew him best knew that he was simply a spinner of yards; a weaver of threads. Whether his tales ever held any truth to them or not was debatable. No one could say if he had ever heard them from someone else or if they had simply lodged in his mind one night. But all things considered, one fact remained: his stories were amazing. And here they were, listening to the crackle of the fire and creak of floorboards as they waited for him to begin. He didn’t have to require silence. They provided it without his asking. Eventually, after the silence had become uncomfortable and many people had begun to wonder if the tale was really worth the wait, he began. His voice was rusty and grainy at first. His age had made it so. Beating time is a losing fight, and the man was clear evidence of this. Eventually, though, as he continued the story, it softened. The harshness of age fell away as the words worked their magic. For, as the storyteller spoke, he enchanted not only those who listened, but himself. The prophecy that he gave forth was his own ambrosia… he lived for these nights when people gave him respect and he gave them a reason to respect him. Purely and simply, all anyone could say was that it was magic. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Regel Posted July 6, 2004 Report Share Posted July 6, 2004 A small but short gem. I wish the words flowed so easily from me. Nice story. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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