It was a rainy night in Northern Griffdonia, and many people were already sleeping the night away. At the Fish-n’-Bread Inn in Necropolis, however, not a single guest or worker had a sleepy eye. The Fish-n’-Bread Inn was not famous for its food, although the food was delicious; it was not famous for comfy or rustic bedrooms, though they were comfy and rustic. No, the Fish-n’-Bread Inn was not famous for any of the things inns are usually famous for.

They were famous for one of their guests.

The Teller did not look very special. He was an elderly man with a messy head of white hair and an even messier, whiter beard. He always wore an old, stained, too-small robe that only went down to his knees. He also had a pair of holey breeches, which fitted tightly over his knobby legs. He didn’t have a lot of money, but he was welcome wherever he went. He loved everyone, but he loved children the most. Whenever he was asked why, he would simply say, in his shaky yet firm voice: “Children can see better.” No one knew what this meant.

It was impossible to tell whether his stories were true or false, for they were so fantastic that many enjoyed them simply as tall tales. But the Teller believed the stories, and the children believed them too. His audience wasn’t just children, though. Adults loved them too, though they were generally less affected.

Whether his stories were true or false wasn’t the point, though. There was something magical about him. The scenes seemed to come to life as he spoke. He did it without knowing; it was a part of him. His eyes were beautifully white, like a blank sheet of parchment and if one stared deeply into his eyes while he was telling a story, they could see what he was describing. For instance, if he were telling a tale about sailors, braving the Sea Serpent Straits, his eyes would become a bluish-green, and the faint outline of a ship could be seen in the onyx black pupils of his eye. And if he were telling a story about a fiendish dragon laying waste to an innocent farm, a reddish-orange fire would flare in his eye.

Tonight, however, he had a longer story in mind. He sat in his rocking chair, rocking back and forth, smoking his long pipe, another illustrative tool for his stoires. He had just finished the story of Krun-yang Elub and how he and his Elvish armies aided the Orcs in defeating the Chaos Beast and his army of tree-folk and goblins. When they had stunned the Chaos Beast, Krun-yang Elub killed him by chipping off a piece of the Chaos Beast’s heart, a gem that laid within the wooden ribs of the beast. Krun-yang Elub disappeared, for the Chaos Gem was powerful, and sought by many.

“Now, my dear listeners,” The Teller said, gazing at the small crowd with a wise smile. “What do you think of the tale?”

One of the younger children, a boy of about ten, stood up and raised his hand. The Teller chuckled and pointed at him. “Yes, my dear child? What did you think?”

The child grinned. “It. Was. Awesome!”

The Teller giggled in his strange way, fascinated. “Not many children like that tale. It isn’t very… action-packed, until the end. I see you understand that peace is more important than war. Better too.”

The child nodded and sat back down. The Teller turned his white gaze on a nearby scribe, quill jutting out of his mouth, deep in thought. “And what about you? What did you think of the Tale of Krun-yang Elub?”

The scribe took the quill out of his mouth. “Well… it depends. The drama of that tale is exceptional. However, I fear only more carefree listeners can truly enjoy it. I have heard that tale before, and many more hard-headed scribes than me actually slept through the beginning! Of course, they still appreciated it. It has given many rulers tips on how they should rule. But they didn’t enjoy it.”

“That is all well and good,” said the Teller. “But what did you think of the story?”

“I enjoy it. It is one of the greatest stories out there. But it is just a story. Though the events happened in real places and with real people, it seems more like a tall tale. There are pieces missing. For instance, the Orc King was not mentioned after the battle with the Chaos Beast. What happened to him? And it seems odd to end a tale where it seems like it is just the beginning. Where did Krun-yang Elub go? It was like he disappeared with the Chaos Gem off the map!”

At this the Teller nodded solemnly. “It is because he did,” the Teller said under his breath.

The scribe cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, nothing,” The Teller said cheerfully. “Anyway, it is time for the next story. What would you like to hear?”

Many of them said that they would like to hear an account of the Shame War, but some of the ones who had heard tales told by the Teller before saw that by the look in his eyes the Teller had already picked one.

“The Shame War, eh? But I told that one to you all last night. No, the night is still young, and a long story is needed. I have one that you have heard of, but maybe not heard. Anyway, we shall see. Most of us know that the One watches us all, but he watches over us all as well. I hope you can see what that means. Some don’t believe in him, while others believe a false version of him. Now, it is time to tell you the Tale of the Book of All Things Treasured. But first, I will give you the Tale of the Beginning of Nosteerth. The thing that will help me do so is a very special family heirloom.” As he spoke he pulled out a piece of paper. Tattered at the edges and yellow with age, those who could glance at the writing could not read the strange language. “A piece of preserved parchment, centuries old,” he continued. “It gives an account of the beginning. After that though, the storytelling will be up to me…”