The spring day had been long, sweltering for all, safe for most. On a particular windowsill, the last loitering splash of sun had left not moments prior.

“Her mouth was dirt and blood and the ashen taste of defeat. It was here, then, the girl thought. The end.”

There was a theatrical pause.

“What more?” continued the man abruptly, his voice suddenly inflected with growing drama. “She had been described not as a woman with a blade, but rather a blade attached to a woman. What more could she yet do? From the corner of her eyes she saw her severed arm bleeding black a few lengths away from her. And her sword…”

The man raised a single finger as if to call attention to the coming detail.

“Ah, well, her sword she saw nowhere.”

The man spoke slow but strong with the cadence of an experienced storyteller, pausing his tale in practiced fashion to keep his audience - a dozen or so old woodsmen clustered around his table - enthralled and wanting for more. The aged figure reached for the last of his drink and downed the dregs in a single swallow, before slowly bringing the cup up and to the side, giving it a little shake as if to loosen anything that was left of its contents.

In response and as if on cue to the weighing of empty, the proprietress of the small-sized inn they found themselves in - a gray haired widow by the name of ferne Marel Mauve - suddenly snapped to attention, her beaten old feet once again providing that tell-tale hurried pitter-patter patterned sound of someone who had just been standing around doing nothing shockingly remembering that they had something important to do, right away.

Ferne Mauve waddled behind the counter, her knees creaking in tune with her steps upon the warped floorboards, and opened up another bottle of delicate bubbly red. She wafted it beneath her nose to take in the strong fragrance of grapes, plums and blood.

The rest of the old souls dotted around the dimly lit interior of the Softly Sleeps Inn took the small moment of pause to give each other approving looks - it had been a few months since a stranger of some skill at telling stories had come through these roads. They were glad to have him.

“Here, peach, for free,” said ferne Mauve, setting a brimful new iron tankard - the largest she owned - in front of the bard.

“For you to keep that fine tongue of yours wet and wagging more.”

The ferne’s eyes, fastly followed by her feet, then quickly moved around the room to refresh the rest of the emptied drinks - mere local wine for all.

If there’s one thing wily ferne Mauve had learned having run an inn for a good twenty years, it’s that minstrels and bards traveling through should always drink for free, to keep them happy and, more importantly, to keep them singing and sharing what stories they know. The real coin then came from those they trapped with their tales and, as the ferne looked around at all the enthralled faces gathered around the taleteller, they seemed more than glad to be caught up in his tangles. Even crotchety old Caliën, whose usually dour expression so perfectly encapsulated the sum of his character, now had an eager twinkle in his eye that was hard to miss.

“Come on,” said Caliën urgently, a frothy cup of red in his hands. “What came then?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” the bard said, now rearmed with another cup of wine precariously held by the edge in between the tips of his fingers. He swirled the liquid around into a vortex to ease some of the bubbles down. He then took a quick mouthful as he cast his gaze about the room from behind the rim of his cup as if it were a rod to reel in more listeners.

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve pairs of eyes he had on him.

But the two pairs in the corner still had their sights on one another, conversing quietly. Despite the lingering heat of the last day and the spreading warmth of the ferne’s cooking hearth in the back, they hadn’t taken off their woolen traveling cloaks nor had they, so far as he’d seen, lowered their hoods since their arrival some hour ago. Strangest of all, the bard thought to himself, they hadn’t even given him the courtesy of a stray look his way.

So he continued, louder.

“The girl lay there beaten and bleeding, her eyes shut from the pain. She thought back to her father and of words spoken in times of safe candle-quiet. Her father told her once: the legends will try to tell you different, but people are not made by their choices, girl. We all make our choices for good reasons and bad, but rarely wrong in our own eyes. To which in reply she remembered herself asking: then how, father? How may my worth be measured? And so her father shared with her words that I trust you all know well: judge ye never a soul by their choices, little one, but rather about how they go about their consequences.”

A murmur of agreement came from around the nearby tables, wine cups raised in unison to affirm wisdom from grandmother’s times.

“And the girl, after thinking back on these words, began to remember the image of Sepa Saul before her, smiling and dancing the way she did in her windswept dress, and another of Boro, laughing as he spilled the last of his drink during their last evening together. She remembered the smell of burning corn on the campfire in the now broken hills of Aul Virren, taking bets on whose cob would pop first. And she remembered the taste of mighty Marn’s lips on hers, freshly salted by her tears.”

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Another glance to the corner to see if they had turned to watch. Ah.

Fourteen pairs now.

“The girl thought of all these things,” the bard regaled, and all those present could feel something within the stranger change, his voice slowing to solemnity. In response, so did the expressions of all those present.

“And though her strength had failed her before, she would not let it happen again. She brought her remaining arm up, though she felt it waver, and heaved herself up from her dead steed to her knees. Her gaze met the traitor Matrei’s, locking eyes.”

The bard then raised his wine cup in tandem with a triumphant fist, uplifting both his volume and the mood in the room again, playing the feelings of his crowd like a fiddle.

“She raised up her left hand and her face lit up with exultation, crying out to the heavens: my friends, my love, in new-found grace, I have proven ye my worth. I call upon ye now! And from clear sky came the coming of thunder! Sudden lightning struck her hand, her hand of righteousness, with the promise of justice in the shape of a shining sword made of fire. And then Saint Elia, Holy Empress, rose again! Never thereafter to falter!”

“Never to falter!” repeated one of the woodsmen, raising his winecup. The cry repeated across the tavern floor, vessels being raised in cheer. One of the woodsmen moved to stand.

“To Sacrelia!” he toasted.

“To our sons!” cried another.

“And to our new friend Haran, whose speech sounds finer than any song!” yelled Caliën, slapping the bard on the back as the others clapped and drank.

Haran grinned, clearly pleased by the compliment, and all about him his listeners came to crowd him more intimately, eager for his attention.

“Do you know the story of the Six-fingered Martyr? Can you tell it?” one asked.

“What of the legend of the elf-queen and her flying foxes?” asked another.

“When I was a boy, a minstrel sang me a song about a girl with an antlered head and her giant-friend, and how she-”

All the while, Haran listened and nodded along - yes, of course he knew it, and yes, as a matter of fact, he did happen to know a tragic rendition of that particular song - basking in the attention of those around him. But his own was elsewhere, his eyes probing past the people crowded around him to catch a glimpse of the strangers settled in the corner. Interesting, he thought to himself.

They were gone.

“Listen, listen friends,” said Haran, putting a hand over his tankard to stop a man from topping off his drink with the rest of his own. “I thank you all for being kind enough to lend me your illustrious company for this fine evening, but I am afraid my tongue has tired from tonight’s exertion and, like any muscle well-used, it needs time to recover. If I talk much more at length I am afraid I will bruise it from the tip to its back, and then what use would I be as a bard with a lame instrument?”

Haran stood up and took a small gracious bow to the laughing appreciation of the men around him, who gave him a final toast.

“I shall retire for the evening in quiet and wish you all good fortune and a plentiful harvest come the end of season,” said Haran.

“You’ll stay here until the morrow?” Caliën piped up as the bard rose from his seat.

Haran shot a glance towards the ferne by the bar. “I think that will depend on the quality of the straw,” he said.

Ferne Mauve laughed from behind the counter, counting out a handful of shavings someone looked to have left behind.

“Don’t you fret, bard, I’ve a feathered bed for you, warm and waiting.”

Haran laughed in reply and tipped her a hat he’s long since lost, before grinning at Caliën. “Looks like you may have me here until the dawn at the very least then, my friend.”

Caliën returned a hesitant smile, a grateful incline to his head.

“Aught else I can entertain you with?” asked Haran, sensing something more. The bard glanced about the table they had been sitting - the other woodsmen had already started taking turns telling tales of their own.

Given leave, Caliën leaned in conspiratorially as if he’d been waiting for the opportunity for this all evening. His voice quieted down to a whisper and the old woodsman brought a hand to shield his lips from anyone else watching.

“There was one thing, yes. I was wondering if you ever heard the story of the battle at Grinhart’s Fields?”

Haran tilted his head, cocking an ear like a dog might when hearing something peculiar. His grin turned into the sliver of a fading smile.

“Grinhart’s Fields?” Haran asked, furrowing his brow. “Which one?”

Caliën looked puzzled by the response. “What do you mean? The Pieceking's, of course. The one where he had his horse shot out from under him.”

“Ah. Yes, of course,” Haran paused and scratched his chin as if in embarrassment. “For a moment I…” he trailed off and brought a hand to scratch his graying beard in thought.

A moment later the grin returned anew as the bard took a substantial swig from the rest of his red.

“No matter,” the bard continued. “Yes, I know that one, 552 Dusk if I remember the year right. Why do you ask?”

“If I bring you bacon and warm bread on the morrow, will you tell me the tale in return?” asked Caliën, whose twinkle in his eyes has turned to a hopeful glittering.

How could any bard worth his weight in wine deny such a hopeful request?, Haran thought to himself. Clearly it meant a great deal to the man to hear the tale.

“Does it beat the ferne’s morning cooking?”

“Few foods could beat Mauve’s early stew, but I’m sure both will last you and keep you well-fed for the rest of your road once you leave.”

“Honesty is a rare trait elsewhere in the world, but never in the Winelands. Very well then, I will take your word for it. You have yourself an accord, my friend, and I shall see you when the sun shines next.”

Caliën’s smile turned into a grin of his own, looking ecstatic. “On the morrow then!”

“On the morrow,” lied Haran.