The Tale Teller

Ch 3

Vaun hadn't been through the town of Cragbarrow since spring. From what he could see, little had changed.

The buildings were still in the same positions, the blacksmith's forge to his right as he entered the bustling streets, the tanner's cottage sitting across from it. The forage had the same familiar smoke-blackened walls, the buildings around it strong and sturdy with their own stone structures and timber beams.

Vaun could hear the blacksmith at work, the clash of metal on metal as he curved a horseshoe into shape, or straightened a poker for someone's fire.

He was a man Vaun knew, though rarely had they conversed outside of the blacksmith's drunken questions during Vaun's stories. He was, as they said in these parts, rather fond of the drink.

Vaun had few memories of the man when free from blurred eyes and slurred songs. He was quite the entertainment when a few pitchers of ale were inside of his stocky stomach.

Vaun passed the forge by, crossing the pebbled street to approach the well, which seemed to still be in good supply. A group of mothers stood by it, chatting with each other as their children rushed about the street at play. One of them looked his way, giving a small smile and a wave as he strode by. He was well known in this town, for it was the closest place he had to call home.

After the man and woman that he had called his parents had both passed, it was towns like this that had been Vaun's only chance of survival. He had found food and shelter by the people's hearths, and work in the fields, or the forest. This town had cared for him, and he cared for it in return. After what had happened to Corum, Vaun was almost glad that he was arriving here.

"Well, if it isn't the Tale-Teller!" A man stepped out of a narrow street no wider than two men abreast. He marched up to Vaun, arms outstretched. A smile was bursting across his shaven face. Vaun self-consciously touched his own beard, knowing how bad of an impression he made. The road had been rougher than usual, and it showed.

"Long John."

The man's arms were thrown around him, and Vaun bet he would have been lifted off the ground if not for the man's scrawniness. Vaun had seen many a mountain or seaman twice as wide as Long John. He was like a stick or a runner bean.

"It's good to see you. How have you been? Where have you been?" That was always one of the first questions people asked. They wanted to know the latest news of the lands, and men like Vaun were the best ones to give it.

"North. Caveholde."

"No!" Long John stepped back in disbelief, ending the embrace. "Is it true?"

"Hm?" Vaun had no idea what he was asking.

He shook his head, dismissively. "Don't worry about it, will you be in The Vixen's Inn later? You can tell me then."

Another man stepped out from the narrow street, glancing around before bellowing John's name. "Well, it's great to see you again, but I gotta run. I'll see you tonight!"

With a grunt, Vaun let him go, watching his retreating figure until it turned a corner out of sight. 

He wasn't sure what John was up to these days, for he was a man who seemed to work at any job available. He looked busy though, and that was a good sign. 

The last time Vaun had seen him, John had been just a shadow of himself. His wife, Essa, Vaun's own first love, had died just a few months prior, from complications whilst pregnant with their first child. Essa had been a good woman, and John had loved her in a way that Vaun knew he never could have. It had been heartbreaking to hear of her passing, and even more so to see how torn it had left John.