You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” ((How do you respond?))
Gwyllan does not sit down. Though her legs are weary from the journey, and her body aching at the joints. But she smiles at the woman–a practiced, performer’s smile. Briefly, she looks up at the candles suspended in the air, and feels the soft, familiar ache for magic. She pushes the feeling away. She always does. At last, her eyes search the hag’s own face, and, clears her throat. “Expected me, have ye? Well… whatever it is that ye’ve heard, may it be good, at least!”
The only response is the wind outside and the crackle of candle-flame ahead. Gwyll swallows in the silence, and considers, for a moment, telling the hag her story. But what is her story? So knows the gist of it. The beats to hit, the rhythm to follow. So practiced and polished and rearranged to appeal to all the world’s audiences that it had grown a mythology of its own. Such was the lot of the bard, she supposed.
“Well, fair maiden,” she begins, winking at the hag, “if I tell ye my story, will ye tell me yours?” This tale, she thinks, would do better with her lyre. And an audience. And a cold mug of ale. And... she looks around the tent again quickly--a merrier environment to perform in...
“In lands of lore where magic's bright, A maiden fair and knight of might, Both strode into a tavern snug, Their heads did meet with quite a thud!
In sync they cried, in pain they found, Yet in that moment, love was bound. For fate had spun its ancient thread, And in their hearts, true love was bred.
They wed beneath the moon's soft gleam, Embarked on journeys, a wondrous dream. Together they ventured far and wide, With love as their compass, side by side.
In time, myself, a treasure dear, Born into a world without fear. With laughter, joy, and hearts aglow, my family thrived, through weal and woe.
And so we lived, in grand decree, In realms of joy and harmony. A tale of love, in lands of lore, Where dreams take flight forevermore…”
She goes on, regaling the woman with a history of distant travels, and music lessons, and songs learned from a thousand different travellers: a Dwarvish funeral dirge. An Elvish shanty. A Fairfolk ballad. She tells a story of success, of audiences with coinpurses so full they left trails of gold glittering behind them.
She does not know whose story she tells, just that it sounds interesting, which is more important than the truth.
Gwyllan pauses. A sudden pang of hunger rippling through her stomach. She thinks of the stale crumbs stuck between the stitching of her pockets, and imagines pouring them onto the ground and licking them up. She scans the room for anything that glimmers, and her fingers itch.
“Aye, lady, that is my tale. Now, if ye want the truth, you’ll have to pay.”
