A deep and old voice began to speak over a small crowd of listeners as candles cast shadows over the wooden walls of the nearby houses. "Calvary was just like any frontier village in the northern wasteland. The village of Calvary was created by a people wanting freedom from the bloodline lords," the elderly Storyteller began his tale. His gray beard, a twisted mass of hairs that resembled the roots of an old oak tree, danced upon his face as he talked with fevered zeal.

The Storyteller paused, coughing roughly, and glared at the younglings that circled the fire, "The first years were rough upon the free people, your forefathers, I should say our forefathers. They cleared the land and planted crops. The soil was full of rocks and deep roots, and soon the people began to create their community, having children and sharing stories.

After a while, they began to hunt the mountains. They were looking for wild game. The hunting was good initially, with elk larger than any draft horse in the village, but dangerous. These fantastic creatures that had never seen a man before did not take kindly when hit with an arrow." With that, the children began to laugh and giggle between themselves. A few of the young lads acted out the actions of letting loose an arrow and being struck down.

The Storyteller smiled, his gray beard acting as a backdrop to a city play that he inspired and continued with his tale. "In the first few years, we lost more brave young men to bear and wolf attacks than we do today, but with the arrival of men into the mountain, something began to awaken."

As if part of the script, a few of the younger children cried out in shock. To finalize his story with one of his bent fingers, which looked gnarled and dried out from age, pointed into the darkness. The children settled down. Some of the children needed help by finding their mothers' skirts. Once they settled down they sat as still as a stone because they had heard this story countless times and knew that excellent parts were just about to come.

The older villagers listened because they took great pride in their village and still loved hearing stories of their homes and great-great-grandparents. The villagers knew of the blood spilled so their families could live peacefully in this northern village and were thankful that their valley was untouched by the problems of the larger human cities in the south. At least they thought they knew the lesson the Storyteller was trying to teach them.

The story was the favourite of the old Storyteller. Some villagers rumoured that the Storyteller was there and kept alive through his magic. One rumour went so far as to say that if the Storyteller ever left the valley, that time would track him down, and he would be dead within a week.

The children did not care about such rumours that the older members of the village shared over an ale. The children just loved his stories and how if they were ever sad, he was always there to bring a smile to their faces. Sometimes, he kept a piece of candy on his hip that seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Within those cursed mountain hills lives the soul of a god, they say."

"What God?" A young Mary with her messy red hair hiding half her face looked up and asked.

The Storyteller ignored the question for now and continued, his tone building up with each word, "Many a brave hunter or adventurer has ventured out into the deep mountain valleys and forests, but none have come back to show victory. You might ask yourself, why do they keep attempting to enter the darkness of those blood-stained mountains because," his voice falls to a whisper, and you could hear the whole village holding their breath, "the one who finds the god's soul will live forever."

Andrew, the brew master's eldest son, an older teenager, called out, trying to impress Mary's older sister, "Just like you!"

The Storyteller and the rest of the villagers laughed together, "no-no, my boy, I will pass on one of these days here, and when I do, you might have to do a day's worth of work." He laughs at his joke and continues, "and do not forget, lots of creatures have the powers to live long lives, such as the elves, but the god's soul has something even more impressive; the rumour is it has the powers to shape this world."

His voice trailed off for a few moments before taking a large breath. The Storyteller's chest expanded wide and proud, "imagine the power to shape the world. You could solve all the world's problems; in young Andrew's case, he would never have to chop firewood again." His eyes seemed to take on a sadness rarely seen in the old man, "but the opposite is true. If evil were to take hold of the god's soul, we could all be cast into endless darkness. Think of the chaos if a goblin chief or an evil lord were to take hold of the god's soul; what would happen to the world we live in."

Flashes of joy and sadness seemed to cross and spread across the villagers' faces. The Storyteller could hear little Mary whisper to her friend, "that if she ever found the great god, she would bring mommy back." With that, the Storyteller continued with his tale.

Later that night, as the blue moon peaked in the northern sky, the Storyteller picked himself up. Grumbling, "Foolish Children with even more foolish town," he marches towards his tavern. Little did he know that upon this night, he was not alone on his walk home. The path was frozen hard, with the spring weather hardly melting the frost from the ground.

The Storyteller came upon his tavern; it had an old cedar sign dancing back and forth in the wind. The hanging sign was shaped like a dancing bard, covered in old green chipped paint. The old man could barely identify the name, "The Singing Fool." A ping of guilt ran through the older man's heart, an old memory creeping in. The stranger following in the darkness takes note of the old Storyteller's missed step upon looking at the sign, and the Storyteller enters the tavern slowly as if it was his first time.

The Storyteller put his shoulder against the heavy wooden tavern door, and the old hinges gave way, welcoming him in as old friends do. Smash! A cup crashes upon the wall next to the Storyteller's head, sending shards flying, and a voice begins to shriek at him, "Old fool, you leave me alone with this bunch of God-forsaken farmers all night! I have half a mind to skin you now and not bother to wait for your old bones to turn to dust."

The few remaining tavern dwellers broke into laughter. They raised a toast to the old Storyteller, smiling from ear to ear.

Glaring towards the bar, the Storyteller grumbled, "Damn it. Rebecca, that cup was not free!" He smiled and placed his hands on his hips. "That is coming out of your pay." He tried to bait her in for a few laughs.

"You hardly pay me now. With how much you pay me, I will be as old as you are before I pay off that cup." She laughed, giving him a friendly wink. He stumbled to the bar, and Rebecca began to pour him a drink of his favourite red wine.

"Well, if it takes that long, I should just retire now." He took a drink of his wine. The Storyteller's mind briefly travelled off to other stories as he reflected on the history of his favourite drink. The grapes were grown from a farm that the Storyteller's son managed. Rebecca's mother brewed the grapes; may the gods rest her soul. He was almost out of the blood-red wine; only a few bottles remained. Rebecca noticed that her grandfather's cup was practically empty, and she paused, thinking that when the wine is gone, so too will be her grandfather, off to join her parents.

She quickly faked a half-hearted smile and kissed the Storyteller on the forehead. "Silly old man, we have more cups than wrinkles on your head." She walked off to fill the remainder of the coal miners' and farmers' cups. As Rebecca filled the first cup, the men started to sing "The Beautiful Maiden," and the rumour was to have started with how the Storyteller was able to bed Rebecca's grandmother. Depending on who told it, the talk also claimed that she was some elven princess from the forest to the south or was half-fairy. These rumours always made the old man smile, for he was the only one to know the truth and was not about to spoil his fun.

He turned in his chair, pressed his back against the bar, and overlooked his small business. He hoped for his small piece of the good life and how this was the best retirement. The tavern's back corner housed a stage where the singing fool would win the hearts of his guests each night. His pub houses had four long tables with a large burning hearth at each end to keep away the winter's cold, and at each corner for privacy were booths where a small group could partake in a quiet dinner.

He had six rooms for rent up the stairs, but only a few traders rented rooms and occasionally a travelling adventurer. He and Rebecca lived in the back of the tavern behind the kitchen. The warmth of the stoves would keep the cold from his bones. It was an excellent place to call home, he thought to himself for these past fifty years. Turning back to his wine and stared intensely into its depths, lost in a sea of his past. As the hour passed, people began to leave the tavern and head home, wished him a good night. He never raised his head from the thick red wine that reminded him of different times.

As the last customer tried to kiss Rebecca, he missed and landed a kiss on the ear; she let out a deep breath of relief. The singing trailed off into the night as the men stumble home before the day's work began anew. As she reached for the door, a gloved hand pushed it open, and a face investigated the warm tavern and smiled lovingly towards Rebecca, "My dear, please beg your pardon upon this tired traveller, but could you spare a warm drink and a bed for the night."

Rebecca was no stranger to the harshness of coal miners and the married men of farms. She waved the man into the tavern and locked the door behind him. She looks him up and down, trying to judge the primary intent. "What a lovely tavern. I heard stories that this is where the song Coal Miner's Maiden comes from," pausing for Rebecca's response. When none came, he winked at her, "It must have been about you, dear maiden." With a spin, he dropped his travelling pack upon the large table with a heavy shake, and a slight silver shine came from under his traveller's cloak. The traveller noticed the older man sitting at the bar and moved to sit by him, but with a hand, Rebecca pressed the man's chest and looked him straight into his eyes, a deep purple.

"Sorry to be blunt, but it is a late-night, and the kitchen is closed, but there is warm wine and a room if you need it. We will need to discuss the price for your stay, and unfortunately, we only have time for one glass before you retire to your room." Rebecca was no stranger to haggling with travelling merchants and their empty smiles. She had no struggles meeting their wandering eyes, stare for stare, and to her credit, her blue eyes would win her countless arguments before the merchant could even start to argue with her.

"No trouble at all, maiden. I am tired from my travels from the southern forest. Name is Drovic, and you might be," he inquired as he pulled out a gold piece. He kissed it and placed it in her hands with a bow.

"Drovic, eh? Let me pour you your drink, and you may call me Rebecca," smiled back, but she is no country bumpkin. With gold and a cute smile, she couldn't be won over quickly and poured his drink. "What brings you to Calvary?"

With a quick hand swing, he brought out a silver dagger and laid it in front of him. He picked up the wine glass and sipped on its warmth, "Your smile brings me here," laughing at his joke, "honestly, I have come for the adventure of the northern mountains and northern secrets while I am still young. Eh, old-timer, you must know a secret or two up in these mountains?"

The Storyteller finished his wine with one deep drink and rose from his seat. As he strolled past the traveller, he whispered into his ear, "I know you were watching me," he whistled a minor tune, which brought pure shock to Rebecca's face because her grandfather had not whistled so much as a tune after her mother died... "I know what you are as well," he whispers and walks into the back room.

"I think it is best if you take your drink and retire for the night," with a look of puzzlement upon her face. Jokingly the man picked up his drink.

"Good night, coal miner's maiden," he smiled, a fake smile he hoped she missed.