The city whispered of a Storyteller.
Not the kind of whisper that would leave you dangling, or that you might brush off as an odd commodity, but the kind that made you wanting more. The kind that pulled you to lend another ear, making sure you heard the right thing. Tales from a far off land? The people of Threa had long forgotten the concept of stories ever since the Atari threw all their text in a vicious, red flame.
Rewriting a history that veered so far from the truth it may as well take a dive from a heightened cliff. Books were burnt to such a crisp that ash began to cloud the sky and the people swore their air changed colour into a miserable grey. Which was why it was utterly strange that a new manner of myth-telling was taking root in their streets.
"A man who speaks of fairytale?"
"Traveller, they say he is."
"At night, at that?!"
"What madman he thinks he is?"
A madman they called him but a madman they didn't really think he was. Sure, there were the occasional Lords and Ladies that were threatened by the very spread of that "disease". But there also lurked the quiet many that had begun to dream for the first time and could only thank the whisper that had reached their grateful ears. The kind of whisper that had lingered for so long and took home so deep in their bones, it had prompted the dreamers out from their cages.
And so, the city whispered.
During the day much more than at night. For it was the night that the people truly felt alive. It was one particular night that a young boy emerged from the stables while his master snored with crossed arms. He'd made sure not to make a single sound as he tiptoed through the wooden gate. Pressing his lips together, he began his march towards the Angel - a white, marble statue that extended her wings on either side - in the centre of the city. The war had stripped her of her arms yet she stood grinning atop that stone structure within white, granite boundary.
It was a long walk to the mains. Where ornate gold structures reached far higher than your average hut-in-the-woods and where the invaders lived in mansions and watched elaborate theatre in which naked women danced with naked men, while the rest of them were pushed to the sides with nothing but a touch of plague. About a month ago, the boy would have loathed those hollow men whilst yearning for a glimpse of that theatre. But he had soon come to witness a different side of it. He had no desire to watch something so devoid of heart.
As he reached the plaza, he noted the sheer absence of familiar faces, alongside the occasional new ones, and the same dusty atmosphere. The traveller had not yet arrived. Ruthless Atari patrolled the circular area with spears in hand. The boy rushed to the shadows before one of them could spot him. There he saw the rest of the audience, bundled together like prey. Though they did not share the same origin, they shared the same hope. That no matter what, the Teller of Tales would shortly arrive. There were always signs.
As the clocktower on the other side of town ticked a perfect three, and the drunks slumbered with open mouths, and the wealthy turned off their lights, the soldiers guarding the plaza began to yawn until they reclined against the nearest wall and dozed off. The air had begun to shift, the moon shone it's light on the fountain, and the dust began to quite subtly turn to gold.
The people of Threa emerged from the shadows and huddled round the fountain. If they squinted hard enough, they would spot shimmer floating in the air around them. The boy, reaching out to touch them, found that it flew past him and gathered in front of the winged statue. The crowd watched in a mesmerising stare as the golden dust connected with one another, a thin line forming between each of them until the threads of gold spun and gave way to reveal him.
Arms spread out as his mighty, red coat billowed behind him. A red so bright it practically gave a light of its own. The wings of the statue protruded from the backs of that mysterious man as a wide, toothy grin appeared on his masked face.
The traveller.
The madman.
The Storyteller.
He tipped his black top-hat in greeting. With a flick of his gloved hand and a tap of his boot, the teller began the tale.
"Lovely crowd we have tonight!
I must say, it pleases me so,"
He walked the edges of the boundary with his fingers curling a set of magical, gold threads,
"Though I must warn you of might,
This is not for mere friend or foe."
The boy listened attentively to the teller's voice. He hadn't nearly the words to explain the feeling, but ones who'd listened to this man over and over would say he could move the crowd like a conductor maneuvering the rise and fall of music.
The Storyteller threw open one arm and released a set of golden dust. Once it rested with the atmosphere, he dug his fingers into the fine air and manipulated the threads in his very fingers. Beneath that white domino shielding his eyes, his gloved hands circled round and the sky shone with images of dragons and lost beasts.
That night, the crowd devoured the story of the knight who slayed monsters against all odds with nothing but the hope in his heart and the courage he fostered.
"Your heart is yours and no one else's
It is the courage to your fight
Surrender the heart, through fear or spell
Nothing but loss, your greatest plight."
The man flung his coat and vanished with the wind. The crowd lingered no more, for dawn was soon approaching, and dispersed back to their normal lives, his words still echoing in their minds. The people wondered how this man came to be. How had he travelled, far and wide, for stories such as he told? How had he the bones to do it with the Atari at their watch? How had he learnt magic? How? How? How?
But what they hadn't known was that the teller was just like them. A dreamer before anything else. They hadn't watched him perch on the parapets of some nearby mansion. They hadn't watched him unknowningly memorise their faces as well as the dreams each of them walked with. They hadn't known that he did this every other night because of a reason he could not fully grasp himself.
All he knew was, when he watched their faces light up, and when their smiles burned unwanted in his mind, he felt himself smile as well.
All of a sudden, the idea of being a mage in a world where magic was forbidden hadn't seemed so bad to Nick Willinghame.