musings & mumblings

The Storyteller

 

It’s like a famous epic of old.

 

The hooded, mysterious stranger arrives in town on a starless, rainy night. He walks to the nearest tavern, boots splashing through puddles and sinking into mud. He pushes the door open and enters, moving from the dark, cold, soaked outside, into the light, warm, alcohol scented room. He asks for lodgings, pays, and sits in the corner furthest from the bar and the fire, alone.

 

But, tonight, I'm in no mood for stories. Especially this one. I’m cold and wet, and the fire is warm, so I sit closer to it than I normally do and hang my cloak on the back of my chair. I even pick up a warm drink from the bar, something I rarely indulge in. My hair is flattened to my head from the rain that had found its way beneath my hood. It sticks to my face covering most of it and plasters itself against the back of my neck.

 

The tavern owner moves from behind the bar onto the stage where he stomps repeatedly for attention. "Everyone!" he yells, dragging the last of the distracted eyes onto him, "I hope you have drunk and eaten your fill!"

 

This is met with a general round cheers and applause.

 

"Good, good," he continues, "Now, who's ready for some entertainment?!"

 

More cheers. I groan in apprehension.

 

"Because we have a special guest tonight! A travelling bard who's even preformed for the King, himself, and his court!" I looked up sharply, my attention hooked, "Some call him the greatest bard who ever lived! It's the Storyteller, Vin!"

 

The responsive roar shakes the walls.

 

I'm in no mood for stories.

 

A lanky man with long shaggy hair steps onto the stage. The man shakes the tavern owner's hand, before the latter steps off. An expectant hush fills the room. A muffling silence that chokes it.

 

The guest of honour opens his mouth to speak and I burst out laughing.

 

All eyes in the room home in on me.

 

"Shut up!" someone calls.

 

"Ya! Show some respect! Don't you know who this is? He's the Storyteller, Vin!" a second voice adds.

 

A third grabs the collar of my shirt and uses it to pull me up, out of my chair, "Didn't you hear the man? Shut up!"

 

"I'm sorry," I say, wiping tears from my eyes and keeping my head bowed, "I just find this very funny. You see," I point to the man on stage, "that isn't Vin."

 

"Oh?" his grip tightens on my collar and he shifts his position slightly, bringing me closer, "And how do you know that?"

 

I smile, "Because I'm Vin."

 

He swings his head back in laughter. I bring my head up slowly and look him in the eye. He stops short, mid-laugh, and lets go of my collar, "Prove it."

 

My eyes glint. "My pleasure.” My smile turns into a confident smirk.

 

I walk over to the small platform the tavern patrons consider a stage. I've stood on the stages of kings, prophets, lords. The stages of people this group can't even dream of. I've stood on the stages of gods. This is nothing.

 

All eyes follow my progress. I smile at the Impersonator as I walk past him. He looks scared when he sees my eyes, but regains him composure a second later with a confident grin.

 

Because he knows.

He knows I’m the real thing. And he knows that if he shows how scarred he is, he’ll be crushed in seconds. His only chance is to play it cool and pray for something to save him. Someway he can win the Game.

 

It's my eyes. One grey, one blue.

Not everyone believes the stories, but in all of Vin’s, he has different coloured eyes.

Left grey, right blue.

A symbol of the cursed.

 

I'm in no mood for stories, but I'll certainly create a few tonight.

 

"I am the Challenger; choose the Game," I say, following the appropriate rules of conduct.

 

The Impersonator grimaces in thought, "Warrior's Triumph."

 

My smile widens, "Great! Rules?"

 

He points to the tavern owner, "Judge and Scribe." The owner nods, very serious, readying himself to memorize every word said and make sure all Rules are followed.

 

That's clever, having him as Judge and Scribe. It's more likely for him to make a mistake, due to the fact he'll probably be more focused on one job than the other. But nothing can be changed, no protest will be heard. The Ruling is absolute.

 

The Impersonator starts, "No animals, no magic, no sorcery, no faery. And absolutely no help from outside sources."

 

I click my tongue. Okay then.

 

Standard Guild Game, standard Guild Rules. This wouldn't be a competition to see who has greater knowledge; it would be to see who has greater imagination and creativity when fighting and who can think on their feet. He knows he can't beat me if he allows magic, sorcery or faery; I know the legends better than anyone.

 

He smiles. He must have some kind of plan, a trump card. Something to ensure his victory, that he'll pull out last minute.

 

"Weapons," the Impersonator continues, "are allowed. Swords, shields and armour are fine, as long as they aren't enchanted. Everything else is prohibited."

 

I nod once, consenting.

 

"Ready?!" calls the tavern owner. We both nod to him. "Challenger gets the first move; begin!"

 

I turn to face the Impersonator, "Stands atop hill, watchful for enemies. There are no trees or shrubbery in sight." You have to be careful and specific when playing this Game; breaking any Rules means an instant loss if you're caught.

 

The Impersonator grimaces, "Charges opponent with pointed sword and raised shield."

 

I smile coolly, my turn, "Pushes opponent’s sword away with shield and stabs opponent-"

 

"Enemy stroke deflected by strong armour," he quickly interrupts before I can say, ‘piercing through weak armour and reaching the heat. Instant kill.' He's not a complete amateur then.

 

"Stabs sword again, aiming at gaps in the armour, found at the joints," I try again.

 

"Chain mail deflects blow."

 

"Blow still badly bruises."

 

Now, according to the Rules of this Game, the Impersonator must describe the pain. If he gives an incorrect or inaccurate description, he will be seen as weak for feeling too much pain or dumb for not understanding the extent of his injury.

 

"Gasps from sharp pain that begins to subside.” A cop-out answer, but our audience is unlikely to notice. “Retaliates by swinging shield at opponent's head causing-"

 

"No harm," I finish for him, "ducks to avoid blow." That was clumsy of him. "Kicks feet out, hitting opponent's legs and tripping him," I finish.

 

"Moves to get up."

 

"But opponent struggles under the weight of donned armour and chain mail. Moves above opponent and stabs downwards-"

 

"Rolls to avoid blow and-"

 

"But not quickly enough. Blade pierces through opponent's head. Opponent dead.” Well, that was easy.

 

"Resurrection potion taken prior to battle takes effect."

 

Damn, he never said no potions or necromancy.

 

The big question now is: does a potion count as 'outside help'? I can't ask the Judge to check; I'll be disqualified. He'll either call it, or he won't. I look over at the Judge. He hasn't reacted or made any indication of calling it. Damn.

 

This is becoming dangerous, I'll have to be careful. If I invoke something from a banned topic, I'll be disqualified.

 

So, this is the Impersonator's ace in the hole. He's counting on this to win. He’ll likely bring out potions of strength, soundness, vigor, and vitality next.

 

Well, it's my turn. "Calls down lightening using the Old Religion, strikes-"

 

"A tree at the base of the hill, leaving-"

 

"Stop!" It's the Judge. "There are no trees in the setting! You have been struck by lightning and are disqualified for breach of story. The Challenger wins!" The Imposter begins to shake like a leaf caught in the gales of the storm rolling in across the tavern owner’s face. “You’re not Vin.”

 

I smile and take a mock bow towards the audience, "Why thank you!" I turn to the Impersonator, "Now that business is done, if you could please take your leave-"

 

"You knew," he looks at me scared, trembling, "From the start, you knew it would end like this. No trees or shrubbery in sight… You knew!”

 

I give a slight shrug. His eyes widen as the pieces fall together in his head. “You're- You're really him... You're Vin!"

 

"Yup, that's me!" I give a little wave, "Hello!"

 

"B-but your eyes!" someone from the audience gasps in disbelief, "You're cursed..."

 

I turn my head deliberately slowly towards the man that spoke and gaze with forced steadiness into his eyes, "No. I'm not."

 

And with that, I jump down from the stage, toss a few coins onto the bar’s counter, mumble, "Thanks for the cider," nod farewell to the room, and take the steps two at a time to find the room bearing a number that matches the one on my key.