Stories to distract yourself

Catching the Wind

The bard sat down at his seat at the bar, and sighed in contentment. The rich aroma of Mead and good food flowed through the air, wrapping around the few other occupants like a mother's caress. Today was a good day for the storyteller, for he knew his stories were only as good as the atmosphere that surrounded him, and the day was ripe for the picking.
A middling man strolled in and sat next to him, calling out for a cup o' what's on the tap. The barkeep was happy to oblige him, and one cup of mead appeared.
He took a swig, and glanced at the man beside him. "You tell stories?" He nodded at the ribbon on his arm.
The bard nodded. "I tell tales, share songs, and give advice." He smiled at the man. "You look like you could use a tale."
The man smiled back. "I'm actually looking to become a bard, myself."
The bard chuckled. "Really, now?" He took a long look at the man. "Are you sure this is the path for you? There are many other safer, more profitable professions. You have strong arms; a blacksmith or farmer would love to have you. If you seek the travel, and desire to never want for food, a merchant sates your hunger, and we need many merchants." The bard's gaze steeled. "Of a bard, though, we need little. Hardship will be your only companion. You will most like fail to eat on days your tongue loses its sharpness. A bard without a finger is lamentable; a bard without a voice is dead."
The man shuffled in his chair, and stuck his chin out defiantly. "Then when I need a finger, I'll sing with no lute. When I need a voice, I'll work with my hands. I didn't choose to be a bard because of the money. I chose to be a bard because there's something in a boy's smile that's worth more to me than money ever will be."

The bard smiled. "Then let me educate you on how our legacy began, for not all stories are told to entertain; this tale is fiction, but our job is not to make lies, but learn from them."

This is a story about a boy. He was born to a leading family of rather simple folk, but he had something extraordinary about him; namely, a pair of wings. They didn't grow in till around his twelfth year, but you could see the makings of those wings in two little bumps on his back, and so, his father, not being the brightest man in Cragston, called him Bump. Now, little Bump was teased by all the other kids, because they had strong, majestic names like 'Horned Bull,' or 'Swift Snake,' names meant to scare off any evil spirits that they came across in their travels across Mother Earth. So Bump stayed home, and learned to learn. As other kids were taught to grunt phrases, he discovered the alphabet. While other boys discovered where a river comes from, he discovered geometry. While kids his age created mud pies for their mothers, he created magic to help his parents.
But alas, as with any young boy's tale, it always begins with tragedy. During Bump's eleventh birthday, a tempest came from the north, and a voice like booming thunder shook Cragston to its core. "People of aptly-named Cragston," the voice shook, "I am Count Kale, your kind, compassionate chancellor of coin. Henceforth, your hearth and home are held by King Carrot. Funds must needs be forthcoming."
Cragston was confused. The wind spoke riddles, and they had naught to gain from listening to this rabble rattle on. That is, all save little Bump. He heard and ran to the mayor of Cragston to translate. The mayor listened to Bump's words, and was aghast! "Wha-! What is this money? We have none! Our village is a humble town of hunters and gatherers; we have not a nickel to rub between our fingers." The mayor turns toward the wind, "Perhaps if you would accept payment in food? We have the finest meat in the world, with the freshest fish from frozen lakes."
The tempest listened quietly, but at the end, suddenly shouted, "Did you say lakes?! I can hear, 'sweetest salmon in the snowy seas,' but if you can't 'talk the talk,' I hope you parse your phrasing for precision, when persuasion is pre-eminent."
Count Kale left, and the tempest quieted. After hearing Bump's translation, the mayor cried out with dismay, tearing his clothes and shaming himself in public. "We're doomed, little Bump," the mayor cried, "we're doomed!"
Bump, however, wasn't as distraught as his leader. He was 16, after all, and would be a man soon. Now was not the time for fear. Now was the time for knowledge. This was when Bump looked to the skies, and learned. Every time the tempest came with his army of birds, Little Bump ensnared them with descriptions of succulent salmon from the smoothest streams of Siberia, with visions of fresh fare from the fringes of friendly folks. He painted pictures with words that these creatures of the wind loved to hear. He talked them into entering a peace, which lasted longer than any plan the Wind ever claimed: one year. Come twelve years, the Wind grew cold, and fought the people of Cragston for their food and homes. Many men and women were injured, many more enslaved by the birds for sport and labor. Bump managed to hide from the wind by hiding in his own grave. As the tempest parted, he looked up to see his hometown torn to pieces, tents trashed and twisted, families searching for their lost and fallen. Bump grew so angry his wings broke the skin on his back, and he roared to the wind, challenging its reign, and for the first time, he flew.
His anger gave him clarity, and he found the palace in the sky, where King Parrot reigned. He entered while the birds were all celebrating their rout, still shaking from rage. Count Kale stood up to get in his way, preparing a speech. "Woah, beautiful Bump, but by-" Bump silenced him with a fist to his face, and Count Kale fell, dazed.
The entire hall was silenced save for the shuffling of slaves' feet. Every bird now looked closely at the man whose honeyed words kept their greed from his village. This Bump standing before them was 20, a man grown! He showed his father fire when he was 10! Bump stood before them, and these birds felt fear for the first time in their lives. King parrot sobered up, and hopped down from his stand to speak with him. "Young Bump," he began, " how does someone as strong and smart as you be born from men of the earth? We all know that from the sky all things good are given. He gives us light of all colors, rain for all growth, and wind for life-God himself gave us breath. We have need of nothing else to be strong- we need never touch the ground, and dirty ourselves." The King gestured at Bump, "You, however, are from the dust. Humanity, too, dirties themselves with their lowly origins. You constantly kill cretins for sustenance, even going so far as to steal from other creatures as unfortunate as you to have such lowly birth... And you have the bravery- nay, the audacity- to come to sanctuary in the sky and demand recompense? For the dirt we re-purposed?" King Parrot spat at Bump's feet. "Speak your petty words, and begone! For your false words shan't have no home in my house."
Bump smiled, took a breath, and the wind stopped. Every bird froze at the sound that caressed their dead ears. Bump had done what no other man had done before: he sang, and when he sang, the wind wept. Bump sang of the tundra he called home, of the plants born from dust, rising to the sky with green hands grasping. He sang of the sorrow of barren fields, land lost to the loving care of Mother Earth. He sang of people- his people- of their loyalty and reverence of the dust they cared for. He sang, and King Parrot wept. He was humbled by Bump's verse, and bowed to the ground, crying. "Wise Bump," the King cried out, "what do you require? You have spared me of a lifetime of ignorance, and I am forever grateful."
Bump spoke with the gravity of Mother Earth herself. "I only require two things. The release of those born from dust, and their safe return to their homeland, to safeguard against Mother Rain's flights and fancies."
And so, with these few words, Bump saved his village, and many more men besides. King Parrot was forever known throughout the skies as the one who made peace with the earth, and Bump was known as Bard, the storyteller. He's known to travel around the globe, teaching creature of both Earth and Sky understanding and the power of compromise. Many birds follow in his wake, hoping to join him in his quest for peace.