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The following text was found in a large palace buried beneath the soil of the Kingdom of Avendale in the year 602ER. Scholars have copied it and distributed it to many libraries in Avalon. It is an ancient text that some academics are claiming dates to the first cycle of magic.

The Storyteller

n the beginning, Child of Tyrra, things were much different.

            Void sacrificed himself and gave birth to the Five, and One of the Five cracked into Many as They expanded to fill up and replace its mother.

            Between the Four and the fractured One, the BloodBreathAsh dripped out from the cracks and coalesced into a ball of existence, exploding and vibrating against itself. As the breath cooled, the elements ran into each other and splashed onto one another and mighty Tyrra was born.

            Gently, the breath began to cool through Time and spirits began to dance around each other like the sun rising in the morning and illuminating pure snow falling towards the ground.

            So it is, said Time, that the destiny of the Spirit is to fall from the sky. And during this fall, it will dance and spin, creating the beautiful flurries that I shall watch and be pleased by. So many great things will come to pass and eventually return to Void.

nce

There was a mighty and great desert which was as wide as a lifetime and as beautiful as a someday. In the center of this desert, there was a place that was once called Dusk.

            It was a great city built on many things. It was built on metals, spirits, and elements. It was built on men, women, and children. It was built on two legs, four legs, no legs. It was a place of beauty and a place of ugliness. It was a place of reason and dream, order and chaos, brilliance and shadow, and of life and death.

            Within this city there was a woman named Saka. She bore the glyphs of many great ancestors, and wore the teeth of many great kills. Saka owned many men, and put them to good work. But despite all her possessions, skills, and heraldry, she was quiet, tired, and lonely.

One night, Saka was making her Alone walk through the desert outside of Dusk, and as is the tradition, walked not just through the sands of Tyrra, but through the sands of her spirit. Saka walked away from Dusk, the city of complimentary opposites, and her feet fell on sand that was hot one hour and cold the next. The sky was bright, but dark clouds rapidly blew overhead. All that she knew soon faded into a mere point in the distance, and soon enough, even that was gone. Saka was lost, and she cried out loud as she walked, already in mourning.

Somewhere in this endless sand, she came to a small misty oasis.

In this oasis, she could hear the sound of small children laughing. There was a tranquil pool of water that wept and cried upwards. Saka looked into the water and smiled, screaming.

It was in this water that she saw all the things that could be done, and the terrible things they might become. She saw how the desires of man could become a prison, and how words can be sharpened like spears poised at the enemy. She saw how desire and despair danced like lovers, and how memories themselves fought each other for domination of the world internal. She cried and looked up, meeting eye with a dark man with hair like a mane.

“How can we go on living in this world?” she cried unto him. “There is nothing to live for!”

“Hush, Child of Tyrra,” the man replied. He held out her hand to her, and she took it, feeling his tingle wash over her body like the sunlight on a frost, the kiss of the cool breeze on a long day of work, the sun fading into rose and leaving his realm to paint portraits of him, the opening of a flower in the desert. “I shall show you a place,” he breathed as tears formed in her eyes, “where all this pain is nothing more than an illusion. Oh my Dreaming...”

Life and Death often argued, as complimentary opposite brothers do, about why the short-lived wish for eternal life. Do not deny this truth, Child of Tyrra, for even as you sleep some clock wakes within you, wanting to pass on a piece of your spirit by means of your children, to immortalize yourself through your ideas, and to leave your name on everything you touch.

Life pointed to a man named Everett. Everett was a Traveler clothed in green. He had Wandered to many places, had seen many things, and was eager to see many more. He was rich in both gold and spirit. Everett kneeled before the Two and One said to the Other, “We shall settle this, perhaps, through this one.”

Death said to Everett, “Sprited one- Wanderer- would you accept our gift?” and Life added “And our curse?” Everett nodded solemnly, and both Life and Death kissed him on the forehead.

Somewhere in Time, there is a black room with a white door. People come and go through this room; taking time with them at the same time they leave time behind. The room is as much a place as an identity, and the identity is shaped like a stone long cast at sea.

“If, as you suggest, I did not come in through that door,” said a spirit, “Then pray tell how did I get here?”

“You came in the only way you know, how,” replied the other, “Naturally.”

There was the sound of a horn and all things changed, spinning topside and downside, flashing one through next and back and forth again.

A Violet flower grew out of nothing and turned back down upon itself, weeping. A man with a top hat lightly stroked it, comforting it with words, “There there, Violet. There will be sun elsewhere. Whether you live or die here is no matter - there is sun somewhere. If you weep, it is for yourself, not for the death of the sun.”

Once there was a blue boy and a red boy who sat on opposite sides of the room, speaking truths and lies to each other. A yellow winged tiger perched, watching, and waiting. Finally, the red boy opened his mouth, as if to speak something great, and the tiger pounced, tearing him limb from limb.

The blue boy ran off to the white door, rattling the knob and crying out for solace. The tiger merely took the red boy’s seat and faced the green tiger across from him. The blue boy turned and perched nearby, watching and waiting.

There was once a name called Stowe, and he was a man. Stowe was gray with age, and he walked across the endless plains to the Mountains, where he was to find a place to die.

Stowe bore with him a crooked cane and a crooked back. He walked a crooked path, littered with copper and chips of bone. His breath always came short and fast and staggered, as if he was speaking, and he wore the wrinkles and scars of a boy who became a man too fast.

Stowe walked, as many do, towards the mountains in the distance. No matter how far he walked, he seemed to make little progress towards the mountains. Footfall fell onto itself as the final wishes of an aging man sank to their knees and cried. Stowe looked at the ground, seeing grass that was born destined to reach up and touch the very sky, but was cursed to eternally point up at it, reaching for the glorious sun. The pointing itself was a curse, but that curse, in itself, was life.

It was then that a man walked down from the mountain, taking the nearly skeletal hand in his own, bringing Stowe to his shaky feet. Stowe looked up at the man and saw age and wisdom and leadership and strength and confidence.

“Why do I walk so far just to die alone?” asked Stowe. “Why are we cursed to point at what we can never have?”

“I will show you a place,” said the man, “where all your questions will be answered and with this and through this you shall be young again. Oh my Reason...”

The years passed by the hundreds and Everett stood atop the mountain again, looking at his scarred and blistered hands. He had lived for lifetimes and had not aged a day. He looked out onto the world before him and thought to cast himself down away from it. His legs shook as he stood at the precipice, barely breathing, then not breathing.

Finally, when he had regained his composure, he turned around and slowly climbed back down the mountain again.

There was once a painter named Jarall who lived at the edge of the world. Every day, he would watch one fade into the next and dash his canvas with whatever colors he thought were appropriate. This pleased him.

One day, he looked backwards down from his plateau and saw a tiny child grow up into a man and die there on the spot, loving as he withered and building as he suffered. Every heartbeat fell like a footfall upon a circular path, but this man was content to see the circle wind and spiral upon itself.

Out loud, the Jarall breathed, “How? How can I continue to paint, not really Knowing what this all means?” The painter snapped his brush in half and cast his colored canvases into Void, crying out to Time, “I need to bleed life. Without that texture, this paint is just color, and a painting will always remain a simple image.”

With that, Jarall stepped down off his plateau. As he did, his soft bare heel fell upon a smooth pebble, and blood came. Jarall fell to one knee, crying tears of both joy and pain. His tears landed on the dirt and made mud. The mud spread out into a lake and on the surface of this lake, the red sun could be seen rising each morning. And it was beautiful.

Jarall put his shaking face to the water, drinking it in. Finally, he was full, and he stood up, walking in search of paint and canvas.

Next there was a large black dog with green eyes who lived in an ancient city built by a King named Everett. The dog, who was called Natarri, followed a path of tears to a forbidden place where there was a darkness. From this darkness, some eyes glowed like coals set in ebony, and groaned out to Natarri, “Let us free, dog, and we shall free you from your collar and your life of slavery. You shall live along side the two-legged ones as equals, with respect. In our new world, this shall be done.”

Natarri slowly shook his head at the Monsters, who shifted nervously in the stone.

“Free us, dog, and mankind will become your hunting pet, to fetch meat for you when you hunger, and their cries will yip at your heels. You will reward and punish them, for they shall be but animals to you.”

Natarri slowly shook his head again at the monsters, and a great growl was heard. The Monsters hissed:

“Free us, dog, and we will allow you, in our new world, to continue to live as the beast who is kicked and punished for doing what is natural, who lives along side the two-legs who will breed you against your time and abuse you and make your very carnal existence a sport. You will grow up in kennels and die in gutters. You very howls for scraps of meat will be punished, and your only reward shall be a pat on your stupid and unwitting head.”

Natarri nodded solemnly, and brought his paws down upon the stone, breaking it apart like it was clay. The darkness’s body grew out and evil came to be in the world again. And evil kept its promise.

There was a place where the lonely Tyle walked, and a single tear fell to Tyrra. The tear struck a rock, which became black and sharp.

A young boy named Silus, some years later, pulled the black blade out of the ground, and took it back to his father, who was a blacksmith.

“This blade,” said his very sick father, Gellan, “is magical. Did you steal it from a hero or a villain?” Gellan coughed forcefully, as the shivers began to take him again. (in a few months, he would be dead)

“No!” said Silus, “I found it in the ground!”

“Well this is a powerful sword. Only a hero or a villain would wield this weapon. Years shall see which one you become,” said Gellan, wrapping a blanket around himself to keep warm, even though he was standing by the fires of his forge. “Maybe I shall make you a shield.”

“Please do, father, I would like that very much. It is all I want.”

In the next months, Silus practiced with the black blade of tear that cried as he swung it. He had much desire to go and make his fortune with it, and to be a hero, not just a blacksmith’s boy. However, Silus was young and underfed. His family was very very poor, and there came a time when they considered selling the black blade to put food on the table. Gellan would have no part of it - he would not sell his son’s destiny for a few meals.

So Silus went out into the woods with his blade, and there he rescued the beautiful maiden Fiana from a pack of horrible monsters that had copper coins for eyes. Fiana kissed him and held his hand, and lay down in the woods with him and there they fell in and around and through love. The two walked as one back to Gellan’s house, where his father was working on some piece of metal.

“Father, this is Fiana,” said Silus, and Gellan smiled between coughs.

“You make a dying father happy,” he said, weakly grasping his hammer in both hands.

“What are you working on today, Father?”

“I cannot tell you, because it is not done,” said the plagued Gellan with a wink.

A month later, Fiana and Silus were to be married on Silus’ birthday. Gellan seemed barely healthy enough to stand, but he insisted that he would be at the ceremony, if not a bit late. The families watched with love, but Gellan was nowhere to be found. The service could not be held up any longer, and the two lovers were married.

Silus and Fiana danced amongst their friends and family until the night grew late. A cold fear gripped Silus’ heart, and he took a brief leave.

Silus ran home, to find his father lying still in his bed. Silus tearfully pressed his head into his father’s chest, and threw his arms around the great man. By the edge of the bed, a note had been penned. Silus read it with shaking hands.

My Son, know that I love you. In the forge, you will find your birthday present, your wedding present, the finest shield the world has seen crafted. May it protect you.

Tears running down his face, Silus rushed to the forge and found a beautiful shield of the finest craft he had ever seen. He held it in his hands and clutched it against his breast, knowing that the construction of it had killed his father, and that it’s shining metals were tempered with fatherly love.

That night, Silus and Fiana lay together, and they conceived a child who would be named Terek.

The next morning, Silus found the shield missing. Confused and angry, he ran all over the city, searching and asking questions. He wielded his black sword fiercely, and threatened many.

He finally found the shield in the market place, where some thieves had sold it to an armorer. He did not have the gold to buy it back, so he gripped his black sword fiercely and demanded that the merchant return what was rightfully his.

The merchant refused, and Silus struck him down.

            When the guards finally captured Silus, his sword was taken and he was thrown in prison. Fiana cried as she kissed him goodbye through the bars. “I cannot be the wife of a murderer.”

            And Silus cried that night, alone, wondering how his father’s good wishes could have begotten so much pain. The sword had made him a hero and it had made him a villain. It had saved goodness from evil, and eventually turned goodness to evil. Eventually, Silus died broken, alone, and as missing as the shield.

Terek and Shawna gave birth to Pualo, who became a farmer. Pualo, the poor and hungry farmer wed Amoretta, and gave birth to Vera. Vera wed a poor man named Gallan, who was still a boy at heart. Gallan was a beggar, and his father a beggar before him. Gallan and Vera named their son Charris, which meant hope, but Charris bled and died alone, leaving nothing to the world but a sad wife named Klaura and a son named Tyth.

Tyth worked his entire life from cold to burning, and his hands were scarred and callused from a life of woodcarving. His lifetime of hard work finally paid off and sweat eventually became a vein of gold. He was the first of his line in a long time to have some real money.

Tyth died and left his entire inheritance to his only son, Jalath. Jalath knew his family history, and believed he was not destined to be rich, so he hoarded the money away, loving it more than life itself.

And the time ran itself in circles before Tyth’s only son, Jalath, lost the entire family inheritance to a gang of thieves. Jalath cried, cursing destiny and thinking of all the work his father bled to earn that gold, and now all that was for naught. All he had left was a silver coin, which he gripped sadly in his fist.

Jalath passed through the streets of the dying city, himself dying. He passed upon a man dying of a deadly poison, suffering from a deadly disease, starving, dying of thirst, and within a breath of wishing death upon himself. A half-lung full of hope shone in the sad and timeless gray eyes of the green-clad beggar named Everett, as he held out a desperate and shaking hand.

Jalath held his silver in his fist, gripping it with his very spirit, sweating on it with the memory of his father. He looked down at the beggar, steeled himself, and continued walking towards

a place where a son might own nothing and desire everything, or maybe a place where a son might own everything and desire nothing. Or maybe a daughter.

And the beggar pulled his tunic close around him, hoping the wind would spare him tonight from its cuts.

A man named Alkus came to Jarall’s lake. He sat at the edge of the waters and saw fish of many shining colors flit around beneath the surface. He noted a tuft of grass growing up between the bones of an animal that long ago had died on the banks.

Alkus took a bit of water from the pond, and drank of it. It tasted good, but felt it was missing something. Alkus built a small house by the edge of the lake, and by it he lived for many years, sampling water and eating fish.

One day, a spirit in woman form came to his door and knocked. Alkus had not seen a spirit in years, so he opened his door with a smile. Alkus let her in and they ate together, and finally she turned to him and said “Man of the Lake, I have rode upon the winds for days. I have heard that you know of waters which may mend my broken heart.”

Alkus was saddened, for he secretly desired that she would desire him. To hear of another lover was heartache for the lonely Alkus. But he wanted to help, for she had come so far. Alkus did not know of the waters she spoke of, but he said to her, “I shall do what I can.”

And he went to the lake and took his boat to the center of it. From the center of it, he drew a draught of water which was about to be drank up by a huge fish. The fish rose to the surface and said to him, “Be careful what you take, Alkus, for you too may be asked one day to pay this price.”

Alkus gave the water to the woman, and she fell in love with him. They were together, and he took her to his bed.

The moon was full again when Alkus came back from fishing to find his wife sitting on the bed and crying softly. Alkus went to the center of the lake and fetched up another draught of water, bringing it back to his lover. She drank of it, and was in love again.

Him and her lived together in this way, month to month, and their son, named Vyal, eventually went out into the world. Many years passed, and lines grew on Alkus’ face. One month, Alkus forgot to bring the water back for his sad wife, and she went to the lake herself to fetch a remedy for her broken heart.

She brought the water up into the boat, and the fish said to her: “Careful, madam, for the waters of this lake are Jarall’s waters of pain and pleasure. No two spirits will find the same colored waters.”

But still she took the water, and immediately drank of it. She lie down on the boat and waited for the pain to fade, and fade it did, with her.

Vyal came home some months later, and greeted his father with a hug. They sat and ate dinner together, and eventually, Vyal asked about his mother. Alkus had no reply for his son.

Every hour, Alkus would sip from a tall glass of lake water, and read himself a phrase from a piece of paper he kept in a pocket by his heart. Vyal was confused, but Alkus refused to comment.

That night, when Alkus was asleep, Vial crept up and found the slip of paper. He read it and it said: “The phrase is: your love is still alive.”

Vyal knew that his father had killed his mother, and a great sadness took him. He ran to the edge of the lake and ran waist deep into it. A large fish swam to the surface and Vyal said to it: “What is this cursed water? It has been the death of my mother and the amnesia of my father!”

And the fish replied, “This water means many things for many people. A learned man can use it to great advantage. To an angry man, it is a poison. To a wounded or ill man, it is a panacea. This lake is called Elixir, and it is the blood and joy and tears of a truly living man.”

The body of his mother drifted past the fish, and Vyal tearfully sought to plunge himself into the depths. As his head passed beneath the surface, Vyal drank the water, and the fingers of rage stroked his temper. Vyal turned and ran towards the house, and in berserk, killed his father with his bare hands.

When the anger had stopped, Vyal turned towards the rising sun, seeing it reflect off the lake, and was calm. And the art that was borne that day was called Alkemy. And the fish swam alone solemnly.

And DeLarity, the Trickster, was running again. He looked over his shoulder at the mob of people chasing after him, and stuck out his tongue, infuriating them further.

DeLarity ran into the next town, where he befriended a rich (though very stuck up) man named Donalbain. DeLarity impressed Donalbain with his wit and charisma, and in no time, had an invitation to dinner. DeLarity was impressed by Donalbain’s large estate, and the many quiet and subservient servants who waited on him.

“I hate to take advantage of your hospitality, my lord,” said DeLarity, “but I hope you don’t mind I have brought a friend to dinner.”

Donalbain replied, “But of course, DeLarity. Any friend of your is a friend of mine, and so forth.”

DeLarity rose solemnly, as a music conductor stands before his audience, turned, and let his friend in the front door. To the shock and bemusement of Donalbain, a homeless beggar half-orc named Skrag entered, wearing his most tattered and smelly clothes. The half-orc sat down and began to eat ravenously, and finally said, “I hate to take advantage of your hospitality, man, but I have brought a friend to dinner.”

Donalbain raised an eyebrow. Skrag let in a pale and shaking elf named Eoran, who was dying of euphoria withdrawl. Eoran quickly sat down at the table and began to eat. Donalbain was too shocked to move.

Angrily, Donalbain barked, “And you..?! Do you have any ‘friends’ to bring to my table?”

Eoran smiled weakly and whispered, “I’d thought you’d never ask…” as he stood and opened the door for a mob of homeless beggars. Their collective skin was rotting with disease, and they left a trail of teeth and drool wherever they went. Their clamor was too much for Donalbain, who tugged at his hair and gripped his fork and knife tightly.

DeLarity stood again and said, “I’m sorry, my lord, but the hour goes late, and I must be going.” He bowed, like a conductor bowing to his audience. “We’ll have to do this again some time.”

DeLarity walked slowly out of the house and then broke into a run.

This story is about a time and a place and a song named Teretta. She grows up like a hand into a glove, but like a stone sinking into the water.

It came the day when Teretta was to marry, and she was very low in the depths of the lake. Her father yawned and paid her dowry, and her mother went on living in a dull yellow color that some might recall like an aged and sun baked paper.

Teretta walked through the forest, where she found a tree that spoke to her. “Few legged,” it pronounced, “My name is I am Tyritta, and I think we are sisters.”

The girl looked upon the ancient tree and said, “Tis a curious thing for one such as thee to be speaking, especially to one with as few legs as I.”

The tree moaned a laugh, rustling its ancient branches, and responded, “Did you think I wanted to be a tree?”

“Not much more than I want to be a bride,” said Teretta.

“This is a sad thing, few legged. For my race, we can be only what we are born for. Perhaps my too many legs cannot make a decision. At least you have some control over your fate.”

“I have none,” responded the girl, “for my marriage is bound by the word of my father, the apathy of my mother, and the desire of my soon-to-be husband.”

“This is not a proclamation set in oak. Your time is not yet come, and you have time to lean in the wind. Go then,” said the Tree, “Before you become like me.”

Teretta ran home and begged her mother to let her free of her marriage. Teretta’s mother sighed wistfully and turned away. Her father was no better, commanding her to remain obedient, and scolding her for considering otherwise.

Slowly Teretta approached her groom, and said to him, “Everett, my heart is burdened.” The groom looked upon her and breathed softly, “In my many many years, my love, I have never seen someone as beautiful as you. I would be honored to die along side of you. Anything you wish, it shall be done.”

“Do not say that,” she said quietly, “for it is a promise you may be forced to keep.”

“What is it you wish, my love?”

“I wish to be released from our wedding.”

“But my love, we are betrothed by the very word of your father. You must marry me.”

“Then I would die,” said Teretta.

“I would die along side of you,” said her groom.

“Take my life,” she begged, “Take it and end this condemnation here. Only then may I not grow old and oaken, despairing for what could have been.”

The groom took his dagger in hand and held it against his breast. It felt cold, and shook slightly.

“Do you love me enough to take my life?” said she.

“I do,” said he.

“Do you really love me enough to die beside me?” said she.

“I do not know,” said he.

“But is that story really true?” asked one from the audience.

“Let me ask you this,” said the Wise old storyteller, “Does something have need to have actually happened in order for it to be true?”

Chords came slow and dreamlike from his lute, and the storyteller sang-

What beast is man, that checkerboard?

What man is beast? I write.

When primal breath is not ignored,

His own tail shall he bite.

“And out of the white door,” said he, “came a young one named Tyle. Tyle walked a long road between father and mother. No matter how many friends Tyle tried to make, Tyle was alone. No matter how far Tyle walked, Tyle was nowhere. Tyle found solace in neither the waking world nor the world of dreams.

“Tyle was perfectly balanced, I suppose. The world was a violent and contradicting place. Finally, Tyle came to a large door where a question was marked. The riddle had never been solved, not by the wittiest of men, nor the most passionate of bards. Tyle sighed and the door opened.

“‘I am the keeper of prophecies,’ said the voice from within, ‘and thereby the future. The desires of the world will corrupt and warp the delicate patterns in the crystals. Therefore you are forbidden entrance.’

“‘I have no desires, and am not truly of this world,’ said Tyle, ‘good bye all the same.’

            “‘Wait, who are you, who does not desire the future?’ asked the voice.

“‘I am Tyle, the progeny of Stowe and Saka, one the champions of Reason, the other the champion of the Dreaming. This very union should not have taken place, and I should not have been born. I have no place in the future.’

“‘See here,’ said the voice, ‘your name is mentioned, and I shall give you your destiny.’

“‘I do not want it,’ said Tyle, and began to walk away.

“‘And that is why you deserve it,’ replied the voice. ‘In this land, there shall one day be a kingdom,’ it continued, ‘and the Queen of this kingdom shall die, leaving a tiny babe to be the heir. When the heir is crowned, there is a gift that is to be presented to him. You shall not hand him this gift, in fact, you shall be long dead before his coronation, but you shall ensure that he does get it. That is your fate, and so it is written.’”

There was once a land called Byrlaham where great people’s identities were the same as their actions. This was a land where a man was truly as good as his last work.

There was a sculptor who constructed the giant marble columns outside of the palace of the King (whose name was Byrlaham Itself). The sculptor was chatting with He Who Saved The Prince’s Life, and he said “I am not enough yet. I have a glorious name, but it is not the name I would die with.”

“I understand what you mean, King’s Column’s, but think about the importance of your work - a hundred years from now, both the Prince and I will be dead, but your work, and therefore, your name, will remain standing.”

“Yes, Prince’s Savior, but none of this is permanent. My wife, Lilac Garden, will die. My child, who is not yet named, shall grow old and perish. Even rivers change course. Even stone may crumble. All I have created will eventually crumble. I want to make something that endures.”

So on a warm day in the summer, The King’s Columns walked into Byrlaham Itself’s throne room and once he was announced, said,

“Your Majesty, I have a project which may please you.”

The King looked down on King’s Columns, and smiled slightly. “You have served me well in the past. Tell me, what is this project?”

“It shall be a great palace,” said King’s Columns, “Where all the great stories of our time shall be preserved and recorded. It shall be built underground, so that the ever changing world of the sun shall not ruin it.”

“What good will this serve me?” said the King.

“One day, your Majesty, you shall pass, and your son shall take your name. And after him, his son after that, and so forth, until thousands of years from now, when the Kingdom falls. Eventually, history will forget you, and you shall be just another King. But this palace shall endure. You will be known as Sponsor of the Palace, and shall be remembered forever.”

Byrlaham Itself chuckled, and said to King’s Columns, “Go then, and draw up plans for this palace.”

King’s Columns went home and told his wife, Lilac Garden, of his plan, and the King’s interest in it. “My creations and my name shall endure through the ages. You shall be so very proud of me.”

Lilac Garden smiled to him sadly, as a wife often does to her husband, and replied, “I am already proud of you, Father To My Children. You are my world.”

He held her soft face in his hands and kissed her, and said, “I know, my love, but it is not enough.”

Perhaps, if love were enough, much of the evil of this world would not exist. Bad men would be turned over by the gentle winds of compassion, and swords would only be drawn in defense. Perhaps a little love could heal the world.

But it is a dark world, and love is but a wind that runs through it.

DeLarity stopped at the edge of the bridge. A great troll was standing in the middle of it. “None shall pass!” it cried, “I am the guardian of this bridge!”

DeLarity looked over his shoulder, and heard the clamor in the distance of the great multitude that was on his trail.

“What is the toll?” he asked.

“Your head,” replied the troll.

Thinking quickly, DeLarity said, “Fine then. You may have my head. But that is all you may have.” Delarity lay down on the bridge, and the troll lifted a great axe.

“Remember though,” said DeLarity, “You may have my head so long as you do not damage or cut my neck.” The clamor of the crowd grew as they came up over a hill.

The troll gave pause, and said, “How am I supposed to do that?”

But DeLarity, the Trickster, had already slipped past, and was running into the woods laughing.

“The Trechae Kazzuli was a book written for many strange purposes. It had fallen from owner to owner, and from plane to plane, until finally, as the Book of Fate predicted, it ended up in my hands,” said the Wise Old Stortyeller. “In some ways, it is as much a part of me as my spirit.” The Wiseman continued, “Many men wouldn’t recommend you tamper with it, but historically, those who have tampered with it have become either Heroes or Beasts themselves. Maybe that means it is the Trickster’s job to touch what some say he shouldn’t. Or the Wanderer’s job to carry it with him on his eternal path.”

The Wiseman puffed from his pipe and leaned back in his chair. “When someone tells you not to do something, it is sometimes wise to consider why they are saying that. Is it for the protection of all? Or is it to cover something up?”

Finally, Everett, appearing as young as the day he was Kissed, stood before his followers and said: “Today, I take my leave of the world. I have had many lives, many children, seen many deaths, fought in many wars… I have done great good and great evil. I have been a king and a beggar, a murderer and a lover. It has been a long and tiring existence, and I hunger for sleep. I shall meet you all in the graveyard. Thank you for warming my ancient spirit with your company.”

With that, he raised the knife to his breast, and as he was about to plunge it in, one of his followers cried out “Wait!”

“Yes?” asked Everett.

“We have but one question for you, old one,” said the follower. “Why is it that men hunger for eternal life?”

“I will tell you a story, my son,” said Everett. “And it is like this…”

“It is the hottest day of the year, and you have been fighting since sunrise. Your army has been defeated to a man, and that man is you. You are running from infantry, who are crying out for your blood. And so you run, though the steaming jungle, cut by thorns and seared by the sun. You race away from them, and stop, holding your balance, teetering at the edge of a bottomless chasm. You turn around, and the men come charging for you, swords drawn. You turn around again, and see a giant serpent rise out from the chasm, with jaws open, about to swallow you whole, and you spin around again, to see blades swinging for you… and at that moment, in perfect balance on the edge of the cliff, between one death and another, you throw your head back in your death cry. At that exact moment, a drop of pure cool rain water falls from the sky and lands on your tongue.”

“That moment,” finished Everett, “is why all the pain and suffering of existence is worth it. That single drop of water.”

With that, Everett bowed slightly, turned away from his crowd, and plunged his dagger deep within him,

Finally, Everett, the Wanderer, fell dead.

Tyle sat in the black room with the white door, and conversed lightly with the times and beings and events that drifted through. The room went all a shining and a raining with wishes, and a blizzard of spirits fell past on their way to who-knows-where. The room spun slowly, and Tyle’s hands drifted along the black walls. Tyle stared at the white door for a full day, and eventually decided that to learn all that the world had to offer, a week would be too long but a year would be far too short.

Saka entered the room, hugged Tyle tenderly, and sat down in one of the chairs.

“Don’t sit there,” said Tyle with a wink, “unless you really mean it.”

The two sat on the floor and Saka talked about how all of life is an Alone walk, and about a man she had once met who called himself Icon. Tyle replied, talking about a man named Jarall who through his spirit painted things into existence. And a dog named Natarri who at one point asked Tyle for advice. And a riddle on a door that Tyle could not figure out.

“In time, Tyle,  you shall open that door,” said Stowe, as Saka left through the white door.

“None of this makes any sense,” said Tyle. “You, of all people, might be able to explain it to me.”

“Of course there is some reason within all this,” said Stowe, “And in time you shall know it. You will live your life for a long time, trying to escape from both my and your mother’s identity. Before you die, you will realize you are both of us, not neither.”

Stowe went on to talk about a man who called himself Icon, and a land where identity was accomplishment. Tyle nodded listlessly, eventually adding,

“The land you speak of is nearby. In a way, we all live in it.”

Stowe nodded slowly and spoke: “Tyle, we are living in an interesting story. It doesn’t make sense in places, but I believe it still tells well, and that frustrates me more than anything. I want to give up and leave this place.”

Tyle looked at him intensely. Stowe continued, “There is a great storyteller behind all of this, and I fear it’s on your mother’s side.”

As he stood and walked for the door, Stowe spoke, “One day, Tyle, I believe you shall walk out that white door, and I don’t know what you’ll find there. But I hope your actions paint your identity.”

DeLarity was being carried to his cell. He whispered to the guard, “Goodman Alistair, I feel so sorry for you.”

Alistair replied, “No, DeLarity, I feel sorry for you. It is you who has been caught, and soon they will pass sentence on you. And I’m afraid that this time, your trickery will not be enough to buy your freedom.”

“No I feel sorry for you because of your wife.”

“What?”

“You see,” said DeLarity, “I am a prophet. I see a great many things. And I know your wife. And she is sleeping with another man.”

The guard, Alistair, stopped in his tracks. Then he shook his head, “DeLarity, I will not succumb to your tricks.”

“She has a birthmark on her thigh in the shape of a heart,” said DeLarity.

“What?” cried the guard, “How did you know that?”

“I see many things in dreams. If you will take me to your house, I will show you who your wife is lying with.”

“I will go myself,” said Alistair.

“And you will find nothing. I know what hour he visits, and I know what route he takes. If you take me to your house, I will show you.”

The guard hesitated, “You must let me bind you so that you will not escape.”

“Of course,” said DeLarity. The guard tied DeLarity’s hands together, and they walked to the guard’s house. They stood outside and DeLarity looked up at the bedroom window on the second floor. Sure enough, the window was open.

“She is waiting for him now. If you climb up the wall, you will see him. But you must be quiet.”

“My word!” said Alistair angrily. “But DeLarity, I don’t think I can climb up that steep wall…Can’t I just go in the front door?”

“No, if he hears you coming, he’ll escape from the window. If you wish, I will go first and catch him. That way you can come in the front door and give him what’s coming to him.”

“Good idea,” said Alistair, “I will untie you.” He unbound DeLarity and watched as he climbed up the wall. DeLarity nodded at Alistair and climbed in the window.

Alistair crashed through the front door and raced up the stairs.

On his bed, he saw his naked wife kissing DeLarity. DeLarity chuckled at Alistair and said, “You’ve found the bastard, now you have to catch him!” Alistair lunged for DeLarity, but the Trickster was too quick - he dove out the window and hit the ground running.

            “What happened next?” asked one of the listeners.

            “That is another story,” said the Storyteller.

            There was a long pause. “But what about you?” asked another listener, “are you not a great story yourself?”

            “In a way, I am telling you my story,” said the Wise Man, pointing at the night sky. “Look at the stars. We have many great constellations. That one,” he said, pointing, “In a land far to the south, it is called Black Fur, The Beast. In a land across the ocean to the west, it is called Green Eye, The Hero.”

            “What is it called here?” asked a child.

            “Here, we call it Nattari, the dog.”

            The Storyteller took a moment to re-light his pipe, and shifted around some logs on the fire. The crowd silently watched him.

“We give the stars great names and great legends. In different lands, they call the constellations by different names. Or perhaps they see different stars forming different stories. Each star in the sky is part of at least one tale, whether or not we know its name. That is my nature. Even if I do not tell you my story, you are hearing some parts of it through the other stories I have told.”

“Tell us another story,” said a green eyed-youth.

            “I shall,” said the Wise Man.

Somewhere in the swamps, a great beast called Tartuurah walked. The hero, Mortimer, stalked through the reeds and rushes. Mortimer had a magical blade, Silus, which was rumored to have the power to both save and destroy great things.

Tartuurah was once a man, the stories told, who was a great murderer. The more he killed, the less man he was. Now he was a beast, hardly human at all, who stalked through the reeds and rushes outside of Mortimer’s homeland.

Mortimer tracked the beast for many days, following a trail of blood and bone chips. He passed the skulls of children and the decaying flesh of the dead.

Finally, Mortimer approached the black form that was once a man. He faced Tartuurah and gripped his blade in both hands. “I am Mortimer, the hero of my people, and I will kill you, beast. You have terrorized the land for long enough.”

“Maybe you shall kill me,” said Tartuurah, “but I believe by this day’s sunset I will be licking your bones clean. You are not the first who has tried to claim me, and you, like the others, shall fail.”

Mortimer and Tartuurah fought back and forth, both determined to seal the other’s fate. Many great blows were struck, and much blood fell to the forest floor. The battle raged on until both were out of breath, and then it continued still. Clothing and armor fell to shreds and scraps on the ground, and cries of pain and aggression joined hands and danced the ancient dance of predator and prey.

Mortimer looked deep into Tartuurah’s angry eyes and saw a little boy too afraid to go out at night. Tartuurah looked deep into Mortimer’s eyes and saw a man who played with childish things.

“You are not a beast,” said Mortimer, lowering his sword, and Tartuurah replied,

“Yes, but you are not a hero.”

“You were afraid to grow up.”

“And you are afraid you never have.”

“I’m just trying to save my family and my friends,” said Mortimer.

“And I,” said Tartuurah, “Am trying to save myself from them.”

There was a pause, and all that could be heard was the hard breathing of both combatants. “Let us build a fire together, and speak to each other as men,” said Tartuurah. “We shall finish our battle once the fire burns down.”

Mortimer nodded, and Silus was sheathed.

The light of the fire flickered off the faces of Mortimer and Tartuurah. The Hero and the Beast sat next to each other, and let words blow slowly across the fire, cooling tempers and carrying away fear.

“In a way,” said Mortimer, “you and I are brothers.”

Tartuurah nodded, “We are just different sides of the same coin.”

And when the fire was no more but smoke rising up from embers, Tartuurah did not have the will to strike at Mortimer, as he had found himself a friend and a role model. Mortimer’s virtue and courage was something Tartuurah gave away a long time ago. Mortimer looked at Tartuurah and could not find the anger within him to strike at the Beast. He saw a child who had once been hurt and now protected his wound with a mask of anger. Past the mask, Mortimer saw great strength and great independence, something Mortimer did not see in himself.

And eventually, the sun rose.

In a different time, Tyle came to a great hole in the ground where a great palace was being built. Outside the palace, a familiar old man sat, writing in an ancient book.

“You are the prophet,” said Tyle.

“Perhaps,” said the man, “But I prefer to called Storyteller.”

“What is this palace?” asked Tyle.

“It is a place where great myths, like you and I, shall come to rest and be remembered.”

“Whose work is this?”

“It is being built by a great mason whose name is not yet important. And an artist who sees and paints life. And myself.”

“What is its function?”

“When it is finished, the great Hero and Beast and Trickster and Wiseman and Wanderer and their guests may enter in and converse with its builders in the presence of greatness.”

“Is that so?”

“In a perfect world, yes. But it shall not be so. In time, the great buildings around us will crumble, and I will sit in the palace, along side the artist and the mason. And we will become bored and jaded, and we will enjoy seeing the boredom and suffering of the myths within. And the Hero and Beast and Trickster and Wiseman and Wanderer will come in and try to make some sense of all of it. They will want the treasures of this place, and the knowledge within. They will come to ask questions and seek adventure. And perhaps they shall find it.”

“Enough of your prophecies, Storyteller,” said Tyle. “If you see all, tell me why am I here now.”

“Well, in a way, you have come here to die.”

“I see,” said Tyle.

“And to live forever.”

Once and Never

There was a Beast named Lyboth and a Hero named Valrin. Like the stories go, the Beast and the Hero did great battle, and through that battle they joined and became different aspects of the same person.

And so it was that they traveled together, Hero and Beast, like sister and brother, Valrin and the Lyboth, the crusader and her spear-carrier.

And one day the pair came upon a settlement where dark magics were cast which Lyboth hated. This town had crossed Lyboth in the past, hunted him like the animal. Valrin warned, “We have traveled through the desert together and are in need of supplies. Let us forego this justice and eat and sleep here.”

“Sister,” said Lyboth, “You wish for both of us to ignore our nature. Reconsider.”

“If you should make war upon these peaceful people,” said Valrin, “Then I shall have to take the side of those innocent. You cannot just make war on civilization.”

“Sister,” said Lyboth, “There is a beast within both of us. Admit that you also hunger for the taste of the kill, the precious singing glory of vindictive justice! If you are such a Heroine, act like one and stand by me, your brother in arms.”

“If you give in to your bloodlust and temptation, then my brother you are not,” pronounced Valrin, placing her hand on the Black Sword.

“So be it,” said Lyboth, taking torch in hand, “Ours was a torturous road, and here it shall fork. If you seek to deny what I am, then that only further encourages me to embrace it.”

The smoke filled the sky that night. The sun rose over the destruction, and those who had crossed the Beast in the past now reached up out of the rubble for his mercy.

And the Beast bellowed with laughter.

And the Hero walked on alone.

“We are,” wrote the Storyteller, “both the creations and destruction of fate and chance. Our lives are paint on canvas. Our stories are nothing more than the musings of a dreaming child, a dying man. One day, the old books that used to call out to us will be dusted off and all the great beasts will be shaken from their slumber and released from their prison and brought back to life again. And I suppose it is our destiny to help all this come about. I regret,” he paused, “that history may record all these events as ‘destructive’, but in truth, destiny is arbitrary. What happens shall happen, and it is the monarchs and historians that create good or evil.”

“One day,” wrote Jarall, “The grand-sons of the Circle will wake us up and ask us what the Dragon’s will was. And we shall tell them what we know, and let them do what they will. Perhaps the great beasts shall be summoned again. Perhaps not. It is not ours to decide, but merely to be a tool in a greater story. As my comrade wrote, we are paint.”

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