The Storyteller’s hood bobbed as he nodded a greeting. “Good day.” His voice was deeper than I’d imagined, rich and velvety. His voice was unaccented, a purposeful move by the developers to add to the air of mystery surrounding him. It worked.

The NPC children who’d been scattered by his feet all looked up at us in a mix of mechanical, pre-programmed annoyance or curiosity. Sinbad shot them a little hand wave, and a wave of life flowed through them, followed by real enough curiosity.

“We’re searching for a story,” I told the storyteller.

“Everyone’s searching for a story,” he said politely, his movements fluid and life-like.

“One a Djinn might be interested in,” I elaborated.

He hmm’d. “What about your story?”

It wasn’t the response I was expecting. “I’m sorry?”

“Djinn enjoy stories of transformation. Most of you kind tell unoriginal, literal stories about shapshifting creatures and enchanters,” he said, his voice pained. “It’s always the same three stories.” Something about the way he was acting nagged at me, and I got the sense that he and I were having different conversations.

It was difficult for me to admit, however, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?”

He stepped past the children, stopping a few feet in front of me, drawn up to his full height. He wasn’t very tall, and his hood only reached a couple of inches above my head. Even with the sunlight tricking down around us, his face stayed shadowed.

“A story for a story,” he proposed.

“Sounds fair,” Sinbad agreed with a grin. The storyteller didn’t so much as toss a glance in his direction.

“Not from you. From the worldwalker.”

A foreboding shiver crawled up my spine, and I found myself sweating.

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

“How…?”

“The answer to your question lies within a story. However, that story comes at a cost–your story.”

“Very well,” I agreed.

Tension bled from the Storyteller’s shoulders. He gestured towards a relatively empty spot on the ground, indicating where we should sit as he sat back down on the bench. Sinbad and I picked our way thought he kids and the crowd, sitting awkwardly amongst all of the children.

“This story begins over three decades ago, when I was a young child like yourselves.”

“But you’ve been here forever!” One of the children protested, starting an uproar of protests from childish voices. The Storyteller raised a finger to his lips, and the children fell dead silent.

“It’s true!”

“No it’s not!” Another child protested. This time, the Storyteller hardly needed to raise his hand higher than an inch before the children fell silent once more. He leaned forward, and began weaving his tale, his rich voice and his exaggerated gestures dragging me in to view the colors and the sights of the tapestry as it formed through his expertise.

“The story begins over three decades ago,” he repeated, his hands raised to silence any protests, “when I was a young child like yourselves. Much like you, even then I was fascinated by the stories the merchants and the travelers and the shipmasters carried with them when they visited. Each morning I would make my way to the shipyard and pester everyone I met, begging to hear their tall tales.”

He cast a careful eye around the room, his hood shifting from side to side as he met each child’s gaze.

“And, just like you, I was brushed off, or worse–ignored–by the adults as they bustled from building to ship, going about their business.”

The children all nodded, familiar with feeling. Sinbad had his head tilted forward, interest gleaming across his face as paid rapt attention to the Storyteller’s tale.

“But I was a small child, and troublesome at that. I snuck into places I shouldn’t have, and heard and saw things I really shouldn’t have, gathering my tales through what I saw with my eyes, and the conversations I listened on with my ears.

“By the time I was ten, I almost thought I’d heard every tale there was to hear, and discovered every secret there was to discover. Each day, I grew quieter and quieter, and my family grew more and more worried. They went so far as to rescind my ban from the shipyard, not knowing that I’d been sneaking in anyway.”

Sinbad and a few children, probably the troublemakers, chuckled at that.

“Until one day, two strangers had the oddest conversation I’d ever heard in my life. I hid underneath the hoverboard carrying an outgoing crate, and hardly dared to breathe as they walked in my direction. The man paused on the other side of my shipping crate, so close I could see the dirt on his shoes. I curled directly underneath the center, and strained my ears forward, listening.”

As the Storyteller narrated, his voice changed “‘So this is another world…’ the man had mused. He’d sounded like friendly type of person, the kind that you’d meet on the street and be instantly charmed by. His shoes were old-fashioned leather, and skin had poked out above the ankles. Typically, space explorers, like Sinbad there,” he said, directing everyone’s attention in our direction momentarily, “wear a health monitoring space suit on their adventures. It’s air tight, so no skin should be visible.”

Sinbad rotated his arm and stretched out a leg, showing off the details of his suit, and tugging down his collar to showcase where it would meet a helmet.

“So does that mean he wasn’t a space explorer? Where did he come from?” Asked a child.

“That’s exactly what I wondered. The sure but gentle voice of his companion, a young woman, echoed through the room, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled like static. ‘It is. What do you think?’ she asked, her voice thrumming with nerves.

“‘It’s perfect.’ the man answered, ‘how in the world did you discover this?’

“‘It all started with a dream.’