We pushed, and shuffled, to see the man. Five night, for one week, every year, a Storyteller would visit our small village. There always came a different man, but it was the only speck of fun, in our otherwise mundane childhoods.

He was the silver-tongued.

The wily.

Hello.

I am the Storyteller.

The ragged old man spoke with an unexpectedly pleasant voice. The tattered grey cloak shrouding him fluttered in the updraft, from the small campfire.

There once was a mage.

His sharp grey eyes drifted to the night sky, with a longing expression.

A star, amongst men.

With a wistful voice, he sung, a simple melody.

O, how he regretted.

He should nev'r had.

His only love.

His only friend.

Stolen from him, into the enemies' hands!

She was bled. She'd been had.

And now, she lay, dead in his arms!

The wistful expression warped into one of infinite fury, his eyebrows curving dangerously. His voice rose and his bony arms shot into the air, sending his cloak billowing.

His figure mixed into the thick grey smoke, and his voice, seething with hatred, burst from within the dark cloud.

The Storyteller struck up a warsong, crescendoing.

Oh how he hated it.

As he cried, he hated.

As he caressed her pale face, he hated.

He hated the world. He hated his foes.

He hated himself.

This power! He could decimate cities. This power! Even the throne was not a match. This power! This magic!

And his arms swung down, his falling cloak sending the black smoke roiling into the crowd.

His voice shrunk, and the smoke cleared. He became an angel, with the moon forming a halo. His hands were brought together in penitence, and his expression, downcast.

Sorrow dwelt in his tearing eyes, and he began singing softly.

No.

This power was useless.

He could not protect.

That which was his heart's centrepiece, he could not protect.

What was the point? What use was this strength?

Why did he even exist?

His voice hardened, and the clasped hands swung down to his sides. The Storyteller tilted his head, grimacing, as if remembering something cruel.

Revenge.

That was it. Revenge.

That was his quest.

To strike down his foes, to smite the wicked!

That was his cause; that was his goal.

Then, his expression calmed.

"That's all for today..." He gave a tired smile, and sat on the dusty ground. Taking a sip of water from his canteen, he waved us off, as we stumbled off back to our homes.

No one approached the Storyteller.

He was all alone.

•••

We rushed back to him, eager for the next instalment. He greeted us with a wane smile, and we sat, huddled around the campfire.

Hello.

I am the Storyteller.

His voice boomed, filling us with excitement.

Taking on an impassive expression, he spoke, his words like that of a judge, meting out due punishment.

Revenge.

He hugged his lover's body, and felt her down. Sharp blades had cut into her body, But a large stake had tore into her heart.

O, it filled him with pain. How she must've hurt!

Her agony brought tears to his eyes.

Her pain would not be forgotten.

He clenched his fist, bringing it up into the air. His expression steeled, and his voice grew an edge.

He would protect her.

He would.

From the enemies that had tore into her.

He would.

Such, if you believe, was the depth of his madness!

He would slay her enemies. Leave their entrails to the dogs.

Nary one, nor two, would escape.

Even in his madness, that was his resolve.

And he raised his other fist, his voice breaking into us, like waves on the hardened earth.

His eyes were filled with an immutable strength, and his expression was stoic.

He searched for his foe.

Who shall he strike down?

Many were after his head.

Only one, was the culprit.

Only one, revelled in her blood.

Only one, he had to kill.

Who!

Who was it!

He chanted magics, forbidden spells, bringing her back, bringing her back. He had to know!

The Storyteller smiled, thinly, as his hands slowly fell to his side.

His body relaxed, he now continued in a normal tone.

Ah.

There was she.

His one love.

There was she.

An apparition, shrouded in smoke, but there was she. There was she.

Then, he expression morphed into one of reviled shock, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

Disgust filled his eyes.

Why!

Her spirit groaned, in pain.

Why! Why do you bring me back? Why!

His expression suddenly turned into one of shock.

He had committed a taboo! He had called up his very own love!

His sin was ignominious.

He had lost even his dignity!

Still, he questioned.

Who! Who was it who struck you down?

And her voice screeched, her eyes widening.

It was you, you fool! You, who had done me in!

The Storyteller's expression broke down, and he gave a small grin.

"That's all for today... Go home now..."

He sent us off, smiling.

No one turned back.

He was all alone.

•••

"He's here! He's here!"

Us children gathered around him, smiling innocently. All we wanted was the next part of his story.

All we wanted, was the next part of his soul.

He stood, back erect, and began.

Hello.

I am the Storyteller.

We smiled, nodding in anticipation.

His face morphed into one of fear, dilated pupils, downturned mouths, and widened eyes.

He bent, as if struck, and cupped his head with his hands.

It was... him?

It couldn't be!

How could it be?

He had killed his lover? He couldn't have killed his lover.

Spirits never lied! How could it be?

He fell to his knees, shocked.

He had broke his moral code.

Lost his lover.

And had the same lover accusing him of killing her.

How... How was this even possible?

The Storyteller revealed a huge grin, his eyelids opening to an almost disturbing size.

Madness danced, a little devil, in his irises, and his body started trembling, bending even more into a foetal position. His unsteady voice continued.

Yes.

He couldn't have killed her.

No.

He couldn't have.

He was... innocent.

In the right.

Correct.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Undeniably perfect.

Why. Why then, was unrest bubbling from his heart, like magma, from a volcano? Why then, was he trembling in fear?

Nonsense, he thought.

He could never fear.

Just as men never feared ants, he never feared men.

And he was right.

He just feared himself.

He never feared his enemies. He only feared himself.

Yes.

It wasn't him.

It had to be his foes.

Only his foes, would steal the life of his beloved. Only his foes, would lay a finger on her.

Only them.

Only.

He would just have to kill them all. He would just have to.

The Storyteller stood, suddenly, stretching his arms wide open.His grey cloak draped over his arms, and formed an imposing figure. One would believe he was a demon king, with just his expression.

It was the spitting image of true cruelty. His voice, too, grew harsh, and soon, he was spitting out every word.

And kill, he did.

Strike, he did.

He lay waste to his foes, bathing in their blood. With a wave of his hand, he could clear mountains. With a simple nod of his head, entire armies would kneel.

Such was his insurmountable advantage, his impossible power.

He only smiled, in slaughter.

Yes! He was avenging his dearest! Yes! He was protecting her!

His warped ideals corrupted his thoughts, and he grew demented.

Then, the maddened smile the Storyteller wore subsided, replaced by his customary smile. He sat, sipping yet again, from his canteen.

"That's all for today. See you tomorrow."

We cleared off, silently.

Not a word of thanks was murmured.

He was all alone.

•••

"Over here!"

We caught sight, of the Storyteller, and dashed to him. His wrinkled face wearing a childish grin, he waited for the last of us to sit around the old fire.

Then, with a sweep of an arm, he began.

Hello.

I am the Storyteller.

Already, this had become customary, and we nodded him on.

He took a pose, hiding his face behind his cloak, exposing only his eyes. The eyes, in question, were darting amongst us, glancing warily.

His voice soft, but intense, he started up a dull, dreary song.

He slaughtered, slayed, killed, splayed.

No one and no thing was given mercy. He had extinguished many bloodlines.

All in the name of his beloved.

His quest, was nearing the end.

Three more foes.

Three more deaths were needed.

How many more would die, for those three deaths?

How many more will suffer, because of his actions.

He had already fallen from grace, nothing more than a grotesque beast, stuffed into the hollow shell of what seemed to be a man.

Salvation for him, was nothing more than a pipe dream.

The Storyteller sighed, but put up a angered expression half-heartedly. Already, you could see the weariness in his eyes.

His voice dulled even more, as he continued.

The first house, fell in flames.

The entire family, consumed in the unforgiving blaze.

The second house, fell by poison.

The entire clan, collapsing from lethal drugs.

The third house was exterminated by himself.

Already, he had lost all semblance of self-control, and he tore them limb from limb.

He had lost it.

Not only his marbles, but also his stature, his dignity, and his wit.

A beast. He was nothing more than a beast.

The Storyteller dropped to a squat, bending his back backwards, and placing his two palms flat onto the ground.

Rearing back, he howled, his voice charged with despair and fear.

AHHHHHHHHHHH!

He dipped his head down, and tears leaked from his eyes.

His voice trembling, he looked at his own hands in terror.

What...

What have I done...

Ah, blood...

Blood...

I... killed them, right?

Why? Why don't I feel satisfied?

Why am I so empty?

Vengeance was served! Then why? Why am I so... blank?

Ah. I miss you.

I really miss you!

Dear, I've killed them! Dear! How did I do?

Did I do well? How!?

Hysteria filled the Storyteller's voice, as he shouted, on his knees.

His eyes were empty, and filled with a wandering hunger for reassurance.

Dear!

Please.

Tell me.

Please...

The old Storyteller stumbled to his feet, looking around blearily. His voice was now disorientated, filled with strange intonations.

Ah.

I am... empty.

I have... nothing.

I am... nothing.

Then, the Storyteller straightened his back, smiling wanly.

"That's all for today. Tomorrow's the last day."

We wandered off, slowly.

Not one of my friends would come tomorrow.

He was all alone.

•••

I sat, before the Storyteller.

His wizened features were etched deeply into my mind. His vivid acting was truly a force to be reckoned with! He looked at me, and chuckled.

"So you're the only one here, eh, boy? No one ever turns up for the last day... Guess the ending was too macabre, too sad for them?"

He smiled, and prodded the flames with a branch.

"You know..."

Immersed in the brilliance of the fire, he whispered what would be the finale.

Men must be strong.

His mother had always told him so.

He got to his feet, and snapped his fingers, summoning holy light.

Nothing.

The gods themselves had decided to remove his powers.

Such was the magnitude of his error.

He looked at his hands. Papery, chapped, they were aged, and wrinkled.

He was cursed, for his sin, and also for his protection, to remain on the earth, living an immortal life in the withering shells of old men, possessing their bodies, living on the brink of death, cursed to be constantly swapping bodies.

He was changed. No longer the impulsive man he used to be.

It was too late, still.

Now, he wanders the land, spreading his story, as a warning.

I looked up to the Storyteller.

"Eh?" So you're the-

"Boy, any resemblance to anyone whatsoever is merely coincidental."

"I am merely, the Storyteller."

Nostalgia filled me, and tears brimmed from my eyes. Five days had passed in a blink, but I had already gotten so attached to the old Storyteller. I would definitely remember those definitive words, embodying the soul, which burned with a passion for stories.

"I'm at the end of the road now, but I'll definitely find you next year."

Throwing me a wink, he stood, kicking dust over the flames.

In what appeared to be a huge conflagration, he disappeared.

The Storyteller, would come again next year.

Author's Notes: A try at a new story type. This is literally Storyception here.