“Hello! My humble audience! I, the Bard of the North, am going to tell you a tale. Nothing new, nothing old. A story of a hero, some may say, others a poor boy who was hated by the world.”

The storyteller paused as he waited, right timing was everything when telling a story. Pacing… Too slow and the audience became bored then left without tossing even the smallest of coins. If he spoke too fast and rushed the story. It would leave the audience confused and having no reason to be impressed. So like any good storyteller, the Bard has to do a balancing act of sorts. Not too slow, not too fast. Just perfectly in the middle.

“In a shattered country in the south, a novice princeling has the ambition to mend a torn tapestry that is his birthplace. Struggling to fend off those who would usurp the throne in an unending civil war spanning centuries. A mercenary that left only death in his wake, unable to stave off the monotony and peace of life. He looks back at the path laden with bodies, wondering if it was all worth it. Wandering souls summoned by a madman, travel away from a wasteland in a foreign land, the first alone, the others as companions. A deity, ancient in her years, waiting to be freed from a duty she no longer enjoys. For all these people and their stories, none are the hero of this tale. No, the hero is not grand, not wise, not ready.. he was punished for nothing of his doing, who was an outcast that was unloved by many, including his father.”

This was always the big reveal novices use to jump off into their story. He did not start here, instead, like any good fishermen, he set the bait and waited until the fish bit before pulling. As he saw the audience's eyes focus, he then started the backstory. The harness, that stopped the listeners from having metaphorical whiplash. The foreshadowing.

“But that is not where the story starts. No, not even the hero's birth. Where the story begins, is the boredom of the deity, a deity many know of. She who hunts for the impossible, the guide for those who have lost the path, the Huntress of Mallon--”

A small pause, a short breath.

“--All old names for a single powerful being that has roamed the grounds of this continent longer than any line of kings or queens, lords or ladies. A being of worship for many an individual…”

One last breath. 

And he began singing the first verse.