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[Ruby Majalenka]

[77th Autumn 513, Sculpture Yard]

It was the statue of two human hands, bursting with effeminate youthful elegance. Their palms were open, and resting on them was a small plate on which was carved a small, perfect, glowing snowflake. One of the hands had its fingers extending outwards, inviting the viewer to take the snowflake, requesting nothing but to reach. But the other hand had its fingers ever so slightly cuddled inwards, like ready to close around the snowflake in an instant, for those unworthy to take it. The work of Ilhor Skyglow.

After acknowledging the artist's genius, Ruby turned around and started her own story amidst the many others gathered here in the sculpture yard tonight for a night of impromptu singing and storytelling.

She began by seemingly muttering to herself, though her voice itself was perfectly audible. Only after a few chimes that she began to address the growing audience (as a first-time storyteller she was content even with the mere 5 or so listening).

"My mother and I counted twenty of them. A group of nomads, has been and will always be. Surely their tawny skins and black long hairs could not identify them as any other than Myrians despite them never wearing clothes of their own heritage, moreso the decorations on their hair that symbolizes places they've set foot, but their feet casts doubt upon the knowledgeable.

Every foot was tattooed pitch black devoid of any patterns or decorations, except a mural on the base of their thighs where the tattoo ends. Every mural tells the tale of its bearer and only showed to those the bearer deem worthy of trust. In dim nights, owing to the pitch black tattoo, their feet seemed to merge with the darkness, and they appear like floating ghosts, too vivid to be mere hallucination, too absurd to be real.

It was a clan mark never seen before, and the educated were sure to find more significance on their lack of knowledge rather than the all-accepting commoners.

Most of them turned their backs on our approach, and not few threw insults. But Apik the leader was adequately welcoming though still refusing to reveal the clan's name, and when asked her birthplace she named a city which she admitted had never cast eyes upon before.

Taloba.

They were a clan driven out of Falyndar during Myri's conquest before the Valterrian, she told us. Their disgraced ancestors vowed since then to neither sleep under a roof nor to taste the comfort of a bed, and indeed it is a vow they still respect by using their bedrolls upside down when sleeping by their carts at night. They quickly made a name for themselves as innate scouts and guides amongst mapmakers; It was said they could navigate the whole known world without a map.

However as civilization expands, they grew poor and their service forgotten, labeled as convicts and criminals by many. It wasn't that they did not want to become part of the new world, they were simply not allowed to.

Eventually Apik convinced them that they need a land to settle on, that their dishonor had been cleansed by the Valterrian. Days passed and they found a place. It was a stretch of flat land on a hilltop by the Suvan sea curiously surrounded by colossal rectangular rocks forming an impenetrable wall that we could not help but it was the work of some powerful being whose heart was moved by their plight. It was there that they started working the land, though still refusing to pitch a tent or any forms of overhead cover, before two of them fell victim to a poisonous plant.

Despite it not life-threatening, they took it as a sign of wrath from their ancestors. In just a few days, they packed and left. My last memory of them was heartwarming. Here is an ancient clan of wanderers, continuing their march against the unfolding of time amidst the bustling lights of civilization, content with just the sky above and the earth under, prideful in the long-lost recognition of their navigation skills.

But what I actually see was just worn out travellers reaching the end of their journey." she ended, and simply smiled while waiting for a response. She couldn't help feeling her story was mediocre in one way or another, but it was her first, and by that standard she felt that it was decent enough.

[Einla Frostfawn]

Einla clapped politely with the rest of the listeners, pondering the short tale for a moment while the applause died away. Was it a true story? She doubted that - she'd never heard of any Myrian outcasts, and wouldn't she have, if they were well-known enough to be universally shunned?

Then again, would she have heard of the nomad clan? Maybe not, as long as they were far away from Avanthal - and no Myrian could manage the frozen city. So it might be true after all, although she couldn't fathom why the Myrians would let a plant keep them from settling down. And besides - but why did she care about this, anyway? It was a story. And she wished to tell her own. Einla cleared her throat, drew a breath of cold air into her lungs, and began to speak in Vani.

"Not so very long ago, a child by the name of Toman was born into Frostfawn Hold. This boy's mother and father were very rich indeed, rich and prosperous, and they were determined that their son receive the best that they could give him. His clothes and blankets were made from the finest wool; his cradle was inlaid with jewels. When he grew old enough for it, they bought him a huge dog trained to carry children on its back - and when he outgrew the dog, he was given his own pony. He had everything a young one could wish for." Einla paused for a moment, adjusting the hood of her cloak, then continued to tell the story.

"Many children would have grown spoiled with such luxuries, but Toman did not. Instead, he became naive, trusting everyone he set eyes on - they were all so kind to him, after all! But what he did not know was that his friends and neighbors only treated him well because of his parents' riches. One family in particular envied him terribly, and yet this was the family from which his closest friend came.

"Yana had been instructed by her parents to get herself close to Toman, in hopes that one day she could marry him and bring wealth to her own family. Dutifully, she did as she was told, but secretly hated him for being so much more prosperous than she was. He, however, trusted her completely. And so the years passed, until Toman and Yana were both sixteen. At this point, Yana began pretending to be in love with her false friend.

"Toman quickly became smitten with Yana, beginning to court her at once. He was able to offer an extravagant bride-price, which his lover's parents quickly accepted. A large wedding was held, and the new couple moved into their own arvinta at Frostfawn Hold. But unbeknownst to Toman, Yana still hated him with a passion. She found the idea of spending her life with him unbearable.

"Not long after their marriage, Yana suggested a ride through the forest surrounding Frostfawn Hold - her husband had bought both of them fine horses. Toman agreed, and just before they left, Yana secretly fastened a long dagger to her belt. The couple rode side-by-side into the forest. Toman suspected nothing, but as soon as they were out of sight of the Hold, Yana slipped the dagger from beneath her cloak and stabbed him in the heart.

"Toman screamed, slipping from his horse. He fell sideways and landed on the rump of Yana's mount, spooking the skittish animal. The horse took off at a gallop, and Yana could only hold on for a minute before a low-hanging branch unseated her. She broke her neck in the fall.

"Soon, a group of people arrived to investigate the scream. They found Toman dead with a dagger in his chest and hoofprints leading away from the scene. Upon following the prints, they discovered Yana's body, also lying lifeless in the snow."

Hm. Well, she'd see how her tale was taken. Hopefully her audience had enjoyed it; it was sad, yes, but realistic as well. There were plenty of Yanas in the world, and many Tomans too.

OOC :

Sorry if it's inconvenient for her to tell the story in Vani - I wrote the whole thing before realizing she wouldn't be able to say it all in Common, and there's no IC reason she wouldn't use Vani.

[Ruby Majalenka]

Ruby sighed upon detecting no positive mental responses from her audiences, but was relieved to feel no negative ones. Another one told her story, and thankfully Ruby understood enough Vani to grasp the main points. Giving a slight smile, the sad realistic values infused in the story Ruby approved, however she could not help but feel the story was lacking in way of invoking certain feelings in its audiences - or it could be that it simply didn't suit her tastes.

As a response Ruby chose a story that could balance out the values in Einla's; one of trust, yet still including realistic values. Should she be using Vani to respect the audience ? But she figured a broken version of it would cause more damage than merits, so the thought was quickly dismissed.

Once there was a strange couple; the husband distrustful and bitter, while the wife warm and magnanimous. They lived a relatively happy life until a tribe war broke out; theirs and another.

The husband was not a warrior, yet everyday he stood at a hill overlooking the battleground to remind himself that the world is cruel, that the strong survives.

One day he spoke to his wife.

'I'd like to show our children the war. They need to know the world's true face while they're still young.'

The wife was inevitably furious.

'How could you say that ? Who are we adults to crush their childhood with our selfish quarrels ? Will they miss their childhood when they've grown up ? And only then I will allow them to see the world.'

Ruby finished her story with a poem.

A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Shallow bits binds the mind,
and intoxicates the brain.
Know it whole
and the truth will set you free.

"Oh, and in the end the wife agreed to her husband's request, under the condition that the children be equipped with horses to allow quick escape from harm." she added quite bashfully for missing an important chunk of the story.

[Einla Frostfawn]

Wise wife, Einla thought, pondering the last almost-forgotten words of the story. The children did need to see the world, and furthermore she didn't see the point of the verse. A long enough rope could set you free from prison; horses could free you from approaching danger. Truth meant accurate knowledge and nothing more. It couldn't set you free from a teacup. She shrugged slightly, reminding herself that audiences liked idealistic values - still, it wasn't something she could usually pass over without a little internal ranting.

Something else she'd noticed at the very beginning of the third tale: the girl had told a story. Then she had. And then the girl had told a story again. Did that mean a contest? She was willing to bet it did. And besides, even if it didn't, her assumption meant she had an excuse to tell another story.

"Longer ago than the last tale - and not near here - there was a dear little girl, sweet as sugar to anyone who cared to ask. But she was a strange girl, she was indeed. Her first peculiarity was the fact that no one knew who her parents were - and it did not seem as if she had been abandoned. No, she had simply appeared one day, looking about three years old. Those who had been nearby swore she simply blinked into existence, like the reverse of a melting snowflake.

"This little girl declined shelter of any sort, sleeping no one knew where. She was never to be found at night, however hard one searched, but the instant the sun rose she was making her rounds, saying 'good morning' to all her early-rising friends.

"She did not eat or drink either, at least not within public view, although when she was asked she claimed she was simply self-conscious about eating. And lastly - perhaps most importantly of all - she told no one her name. But she was such a sweet little girl that no one seriously questioned her motives for years.

"For years, I say, and yet the little girl seemed hardly to age. Oh, she grew taller and her hair grew longer - pale black hair it was - but she kept the kind, childish expression on her face. And she kept her mysterious habits. Then, one day, a man who had recently risen in prosperity brought a terrible story of murder. Murder among the poor, in a small group of those so without knowledge that they believed what they had suffered was some sort of quick-acting disease. They stayed away from the bodies for fear they would become ill as well. But the man had recently trained in medicine, and he knew of no disease which turned the victim dry and white - no disease which produced two puncture marks in the skin.

"When this man found out about the girl, he was immediately suspicious. Where did she go at night? Why didn't she eat in public? Where had she come from? He told her friends, and although they didn't want to doubt her, she gradually brought them round. Most of them had heard of the Widows - and it seemed as if the girl was just such a creature, who had been living under their noses for years.

"The man incited the girl's former friends to go and find her - find her at night. She must be somewhere, he argued. And he thought he knew where - killing the poor in their sleep. He led the crowd to his former home. There she was, with her mouth to the arm of a dead young girl.

"She sprang up when she saw them, and most of the crowd caught a glimpse of fangs as she moved. She tried to dart away, but the man caught her - caught her with his voice. 'Stop!' he commanded, and she stopped still.

"He forced her to divulge all her secrets. She was a Widow, she had been sneaking away each night to kill the one who would be missed by the least number of people. When possible, she made it look like suicide. After the deed was done, she drank her victim's blood and left the scene. As the last word left the girl's lips, the hypnotist commanded her: 'Hold still!' Then he loosened a chunk of stone from the edge of a building and slammed it into her skull, shattering her.

"The crowd he had brought with him stood in stunned silence for a moment. Then one man said into the quiet: 'She was always so kind.'

"The hypnotist turned to glare at him. 'She was a Widow!'

"'She was only trying to stay alive!' And he suddenly lunged forward, blocking the hypnotist's mouth with his hand so he could not be controlled with words. The two began to brawl.

"Slowly at first, then faster and more angrily, others joined in. They grabbed swords, daggers, rocks off the street. 'She was a monster!' 'He did magic!' 'She killed people!' 'She didn't mean to!' 'She always remembered my name!' 'She never told you hers!'

"The fight lasted for hours. When it was over, six people lay dead. So did the Widow and the hypnotist."

Einla honestly wasn't sure about that one. It had begun as a story where something was wrong, but she hadn't known what any more than the characters had. Then there came the Widow - she was sure most people here had heard stories about them - and then, finally, the hypnotist, something else many found disturbing. But maybe that wasn't 'finally'. Because finally meant the last line, and that... was it true? What a strange feeling, not to know if one's own work was true. Still, the whole story had been told as fast as she could think, and she didn't quite know whether she believed those connotations. Who were the Widow and the hypnotist - that was the question Or maybe, the question was whether to use the word 'who' or 'what' in relation to them.

She thought she believed her first impulse - the impulse she'd had when she told the audience that final line. But she also had the uncanny feeling she was missing something in plain sight. Perhaps she was - or perhaps it was the only the aftereffects of telling such a story as she had.

[Ruby Majalenka]

The last story Ruby disliked, because in her view a story was supposed to invoke feelings or thoughts or things akin, not merely leave an empty unfulfilled aftertaste. Such technique was useful in underlining certain themes or morals in epics, but Ruby mildly object to using it in short stories though it was difference in storytelling style that led to its use, therefore like quaint quirks and personalities, demand of tolerance in such context were not uncommon.

However from it an idea dawned. What made the Widow prey on the aloof and alone ? Whether it was pity on those who would grieve or simply a tactical aptitude, was irrelevant. It was simply because she was a Widow, as was the case with the Hypnotist and the quarreling villagers. They did what they did simply because they were who they were. In a sense, revered storytellers and writers were simply a slave to the characters they created; playing gods and lovers in a plot determined by the character’s attitude, personality, and experience.

Ruby cleared her throat and began another story.

“There once lived a treasure hunter named Argul. Since he came from a family of treasure hunters, his fate was determined from such an early age. Not that he ever objected; he loved the thrill of uncharted places, the daunts of tells of fearsome treasure guardians. Fame and wealth was never his aim; to simply be in the game was.

Then one day he heard a legend. It was said that long ago in a kingdom bursting with gold and jewels, its people thought of ways to keep their wealth safe from their neighboring kingdom’s jealous eyes. Finally it was decided that they would seal the treasure in a cave guarded by a monster. To keep the monster big and intimidating, the people kept feeding it until the monster plugged the cave’s entrance with its huge body, in which state people gave up on reclaiming their riches and time passed.

Argul quickly departed and with his wits and instincts managed to locate the cave. The gigantic skeleton framing the entrance proved the story true. Despite the ease of entry, nobody were foolhardy enough to brave the macabre atmosphere. For hundreds of years it stood there, a predator offering its open jaws to those who chanced upon it to maybe never return.

The darkness inside was creepily thick and impenetrable; Argul’s lamp seemed to do little than light his own feet. Nevertheless he drew his sword, more to quell his own thoughts that guard against real dangers, and walked on.

It was in the deepest part of the cave that a creature stood between Argul and the treasure. The creature’s silhouette was that of a woman’s, yet the body wasn’t merely flesh and bones. Rather, the ethereal being was that of smokes and swirls glowing soft blue.

The being explained that she was the ghost of a woman who once were the monster’s good friend. When the monster died, its heart was already weary. Its ghost kept standing guard, but not for its initial purpose; it simply wished for someone to claim the treasure and relieve it of its duty. The woman was very saddened with his friend’s burden; however the monster’s dead body still blocked the entrance. Therefore the woman took over the monster’s duty so her friend could pass on.

‘Claim your luck, sir. And relieve me of this burden.’

However Argul was himself before he was a treasure hunter; he fell in love with the female ghost and decided to not claim the treasure. He forsook his life, his past, everything, and married the ghost. Then just before his death, he sent word to his remaining relatives regarding his whereabouts.

Argul lay on the pile of treasure surrounded by his nieces and nephews, his ethereal wife on his side holding his hand. As he closed his eyes, the woman looked around and gave a last smile as she moved into the next world with his husband, hoping Lhex the god of fate would keep them forever in the next life too.”