The Storyteller Before Me

The First Session

There are many strange things in the world. Every hill, every tree, every blade of grass, has its own story, and mystery about it. Giants, mighty enough to crack the world, but light enough to live in the clouds, and build them into the grand shapes and swirls as they appear in the sky, have been seen for centuries, sculpting the white fluff into majesties of art. There are demons, roaming every sea, every cave, and behind every star, and fairies that leave behind a magical pollen, that grows flowers up to the heads of the tallest among us. Even here, in the dismal north, there are creatures who hide beneath the snow, waiting for the summer months to defrost the world so they can live without dying from the chill. Nothing in this world is as it seems. Before you call me a liar and fool, hear this. I have met someone who has seen such magical things, spoken with them even. Her voice was quiet, but profound, and thundurus in nature.

Her name was Deali Woshea. She was, before me, the storyteller of this place. People came from the largest cities in the south to come and listen to her spout of her great journey across the lands, where she conversed with, and even dueled, great monsters and witches who without her intervention, would destroy the very world in which you live. Even in her adult years, her small, wiry frame never changed. These beings, strong as they were, and as tiny as she was, could not even manage to scratch her.

How, you may ask? Sit awhile, and perhaps you might be patient enough to hear the whole thing.

She began her quest in a small hut, on the outskirts of Khamuo, down where you go to school. In those days, mighty earthquakes rolled across the land. They would break the limbs of trees, shatter the walls of house, and cause avalanches and mudslides. Her house, which stood when foundations were made not of stone, but of dirt, would have been where the fields are now. Deali lived in a small hut filled with her family. Two parents, three siblings, an aunt, and a cousin. Deali was the youngest and smallest of the household.

Despite the many explorers who arrived to spare the north of the quakes by finding their source, the shaking continued, tearing swaths of forests and towns apart. Deali would hear the same thing from the others everyday.

"Here it comes, another quake to raze our town.

Run and hide, escape from your roofs and walls,

For tonight they fall again, down to earth!"

Adults complain often, yet see the problems of the world and refuse to fix them due to their own perception of what is possible and what is not. There are however, in every place, from the largest cities on the southern coasts, to the smallest town, an old bugger with stories about the wildest things. There were many before me, before this town was mapped. I am but one link in a large chain of those who pass down the imagination of a child to those with the wisdom of an elder. The storyteller of Khamuo in those times was wise old woman, whose name was lost to time.

I'm afraid that's all you have time for today. Look, the sun sets on the horizon. Return tomorrow, maybe bring a loaf of bread, you'll be inside all day after all. And don't bring anyone else to listen, perhaps you yourself are one of the links in this chain. We shall see.