The Tale Teller

Ch 1

The first sign came at the bridge to the north. A crossroads, where a schoolhouse sat upon one corner, a forge on another. The landscape was dotted with farm cottages. The people belonging to them came in their crowds to hear him speak. 

One little boy had cried for a story, of The Father and The Mother. It was a firm favourite, but one he never tired of telling. 

The children had stopped their chases, finding their seats upon the grass banks as the first words were spoken. A man joined them, suspicious in how he plopped down amongst them with crossed legs and a terror of a frown. His beard was brown, sprinkled with a red that matched the coat he wore. It was concealed with the dark cloak over it, that was tugged further around his body with every line the man spoke. His frown slowly turned, until his face was an expression of awe and wonder by the time the last word was spoken.

A few coins were thrown into the teller's bag, along with some apples and pears, a roll or two of bread joining it. This was his payment for the tale, and he rose from his makeshift chair upon an overturned tree, with thankfulness. He didn't expect the strange man to follow, but he tailed him like a lost cub.

By the time the sun began to lower in the sky, the man had revealed his name to be Corum. He asked more questions than he answered, though the travelling storyteller was not one to inquire. He was a tight-lipped fellow, who asked for as much as he shared. Few knew his name, and even fewer knew where he came from, or his own story.

He slept in the shelter of the woods that night, before rising early to continue his walk along the dusty path. The stranger rose with him.

A routine was soon formed. They walked during the day, camping at night near hamlets and villages, or once more, in the shelter of the trees. The storyteller thought his companion to turn his own way once they reached the town of Windharbour. Corum had stayed close though, visiting the same taverns as the storyteller, and resting in the same inns at night.

Once the town was behind him, his stay over, Corum had once again followed. A comfortable acceptance had formed. The storyteller was no longer to walk alone on his journey south for winter. He now had a travel companion, who was quickly becoming a dear friend.

In the moments where the dust of the road rose around them, and the warmth of their own breaths was all to be found, he found himself sharing a detail here or there. Corum would hum along, asking for more, but never offering information of his own.

As the weeks passed, the storyteller revealed his name, Vaun, and his hometown, and the lover he had recently lost.

"A guard caught her stealing a barrel of silk in Darkharbour." Spices, jewels, golds; Lune had stolen before. With a dagger to the gut, she was to do it no more. It was a fact Vaun had been yet to share.

"Your sweetling?"

"No. A friend." If Lune could even have been called that.

She had been nothing but a wild beauty, tanned, with hair as black and feral as her eyes. Her body had been strong and athletic from her childhood on both land and sea. A sailor's daughter, with a sailor's tongue and mannerisms. She was far from a warm gentle creature, but perhaps that was what had drawn Vaun to her. She had promised him things he had never seen before, felt before, and curiosity had got the better of him.

She was dead now though, just like their conversation. Vaun ignored Corum's next probing question.

They travelled together for two weeks, and once Vaun had revealed what little he dared, a bond was created, a friendship formed. Neither shared much about themselves, yet the moments of silence seemed to reveal every unspoken word.

Corum seemed as lost as Vaun, travelling a road with no concrete destination. Their lives consisted of a long walk south for winter, before north for summer, and south once more when the weather turned them. No home, no family. Just the road, and the friends and foes they met along the way.

It made it all the more distressing when Vaun woke one night with a dagger to his throat, and a merchant's guard standing over him. Another guard was by his side, dressed in the familiar rich red of the south. A weapon was in one hand, and Corum's severed head in the other.

They gave him no time to react, before the butt of their axes swung at Vaun's temple, and everything went black.

Once shaken from his forced sleep, he had found himself alone. The men were gone, and all was left was Corum's headless body. Numb with grief, he had carried his best friend to the shore.

Corum had loved the tales of The Father and The Mother the most, and it was with them he ought to return to. When The Father was born from the mountain, and The Mother from the shore, the depths of the ocean was where he belonged. He would be with their maternal creator now, forever in the comfort of her embrace.

Vaun had stood and watched as the waves lapped over Corum's arms and legs. They were gentle at first, sad. As they grew, the body was washed under, the sea dragging him to his grave.

The full moon had cast its light upon the body, and the sigal embroidered into the breast of his red coat. The curling white thread looked as though it was once as bright and clean as the moon overhead. It was dirty from the road. Splashed red with blood. It gave Vaun the confirmation he needed.

Corum had always kept his breast hidden, covering the sigal from sight. The storyteller was no fool though. He had known the red of the coat for what it was. It was the colour of the south, the capital, a rich shade they wore to show their wealth and pride. It had likely been given to Corum from a merchant, along with a duty that he had defied. The ending of his life had been his punishment.

Vaun didn't know what the duty had been, or why death had been the only possible answer. Although the guards could have taken him too should they have wanted, they hadn't. Whether that meant Vaun was free from danger, he didn't know. Leaving the grave, he travelled to the only person who may.