The stories speak of magics and men of greatness as they flow from ages of glory and honor. The stories leave out much in the way of the horrid. No one wants to remember the foul smell of death. A stench somewhere between the rancid stench of expired milk and rotten meat all while somehow carrying the distinct smell of shit. The stories seem to forget the way some men cry when they see their allies slain and laugh when they kill their enemy in a lusty way a man becoming the hero he always thought he was. Only to get cut down the next moment and another to weep for him the same.

The stories are embellished. Rarely was their truly a beautiful princess to hold within the arms after the vanquishing of a cursed enemy. The jarring problem being most princess are not exactly ugly but not pleasing to the eye, nor the ear. Not knowing a single day of work in their lives and never being allowed to leave the confines of a castle, surely, has something to do with it.

No, the stories lie. They tell of fantasies and amazing feats to entice men into lusts of unknown glories. Different ideals hold the heart but none so strong as the ego of his own godliness and the desire to show it to all those who doubt him.

Alen knew all this now and he knew much more. He knew the pain of battle. Understood the deepest kinds of regret and how in the end, it was he who chose this lifestyle. He had listened to those stories and believed them to be his call to the affronted glory he had known he deserved. How he had been the king to be and just had to claim his fortune and inspire all to listen to him.

It was all shit. The lot of it making him sick to his stomach. Even now as he sits in this tavern listening to the blasted minstrel who seems to have a story for everything glory was but not what he had learned it to be. He felt within the pit of his belly the sloshing of warm ale but also the coals of anger keeping it warm.

If Alen had words to say to the man. He would. If he wasn't under the brews ill effects he would go bash the man's face in and make sure he never spews the poison to the ears.

For the gods sake you bastard, children are listening!

Alen wanted to yell this to all but as always he knew he could not.

The tavern was full. From the old to the young, they all listened silently to the man who held the attention of all at the center of the masses.

He was neither young nor old, large but not huge, elegant and dashing but commoner as they come. He had a black beard of sure length not tidied but no single strand stood alone. His black hair fell in waves from his head much the same as a woman's but of such coarseness, it could never be mistaken for it from the backside. 

His skin told a tale of long days spent under the sun but not of such dark complextion to be confused with the workers of a field. He had strength and courage to his posture but none of these were as curious as to his voice. Seemingly to come off a rougher kind like the sound of rocks slowly grinding against itself but yet silken with practice. He made no attempts at softening the sound but still, it caught the ears of all who listened as a learned and well-spoken man. 

He wore no extravagant clothing, no gaudy materials could be seen upon his visage. Upon his back were the clothes of an everyman. A white shirt made of cotton and a brown leather jacket covered his arms, brown leathered pants and worn black boots.

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"Can you tell us more about the man who never speaks?" A member of the crowd spoke to the man in a squeaky voice.

When Allen looked closer and saw it was but a young boy no more than seven his heart clenched.

"What do you wanna know lad?" the man said with a glimmer of a smile coming to his face.

"Is it true?" he said with wide eyes,"I mean it can't be but I heard that whenever speaks he will let demons fly from his mouth and swallow up anyone around him."

"NOOOO, I heard that he sucks the soul right out of 'em. Eating them like candies." Another slightly older boy spoke as if willing his to be truer than the last.

"You twats, your both your wrong. He was demon spawn but he looked like a human so whenever he cried he would wail so loud it would kill all around him. His demon parents were said to bring him to villages at the dead of the night to eat the succulent pieces of meat left of those who died in terror.

Before another jumped forward with his own ideas and half truths. The man they crowded around let out a hearty laugh that echoed throughout the tavern like a great and giant wave washing over them and soaking the words ready to spew from their lips.

"I don't know about those stories lads," He paused looking towards Allen with a grin. "But I do know of The Man of No words."

Allen was already getting to his feet, he hated this story. Hated it with such passion he could feel his anger spiking and then winking out like a candle with no more wick to burn. 

He hated this story not just for all the normal reasons as he hated all the others. He hated this one because the truth it held.

Alen clumsily made his way to the door and heard the beginning of the tale. 

"A man he was and a man he still is. The man of no words is both like you and unlike you. He was born of parents the same as your lads. He grew and learned tales much like this one. He thought as many men do and even some of you might right this moment. He believed  he could be the hero in all the stories and if not the hero he could be best man he could."

He gave a wondrous look to all the crowd. Noticing that Alen was slowly moving towards the doors, he ventured forward with the tale.

"He even has a name. A name as normal as you or I."  he looked to the boy closest to him.".What's your name lad?" 

The boy was stunned for a moment as if he himself were talking to a legend. 

"Gabriel but my friends call me Gabby." he stammered.

"A good name lad. A name says a lot of about a person you know. Just as my own says so much about me. You know me as The Bard. But if you were to have asked you would know me as Bartimus."

It was as if he had shattered the spell of the tale that wrapped around them.

"Bartimus the Bard" 

Few had whispered the name. Some had spoken in hushed tones. Most had yelled it in disbelief. All knew now who this man before them was but none so much as made a word to interrupt him as he now spoke once more.

"The Man of No Words only has a single name. He had no title in the beginning. Nothing besides his name. A simple name known to me and now all of you as Allen."

He frowned noticing some of the listeners looked both incredulous and unimpressed. Some had doubted his words but he decided now none would so much as have one misgiving before the end of the tale.

"Allen is the best of us. The man of no words made his way into the world with nothing and everything that he could and joined the great war. And in that bloody battle emerged no longer a boy dreaming of glory but a man who speaks no words."

The listeners now completely falling back into rapture. The man for the first time this night no longer only spoke this tale with his words but began weaving the take into the air with his hands.

Some gasped, others froze, and even more sighed in amazement.

A single word hung frozen in the air by the boy who had first spoken.

Magic

"If ever there was a tale that spoke of a true hero lad. This is by far the greatest of them all. The Man with no words lost them not because they were taken from him. No, he lost them because he gave them away."

Allen opened the door of the tavern and began to exit for his bed at the inn next door.  He had lived this tale and had no desire to live it again even by the ear and some he knew by sight as well.

Allen gave one last look over his shoulders at Bartimus the Bastard. His last hope. His only Friend.