Twidler's Tales (Prologue)

You stare down the cobbled walkway at the quaint little stone cottage in front of you. A broken down workshop just shyes out of view around the far wall. The grass around the lawn seems uncut in any recent time and is strewn with stones children might have thrown at the now cracked windows-much to the vex of the inhabitant, you imagine. The owner apparently cares little that his abode might be aesthetically unpleasing, but then tips on home decoration is not why you have travelled far and wide seeking Twidler "Limerick Sprout" Twinklefoot.



"Grumpy lil' fella...", your guide retorts as he takes a step forward into view. "Yeessss, an' he doesnt get out much either. I cant reckon why you would want to see him, but hey, as long as its worth my while eh?". He rubs a dirty finger over his stubble with a cheeky grin. You dont remember the last time you had met someone with a less flattering sense of oral hygiene.



You quickly grab into your travel pouch hanging lazily by your side and finger four gold pieces into an eager palm.



Your guide quickly tosses your money to fall into the center of his palm with a satisfying jingle and snaps his long fingers shut around them, and in the wink of an eye they vanish into some crevice on a worn-for-wear pair of woolen trousers-that you wouldnt care less to indulge yourself to investigate.



With a hoarse gargle and expert spit that you admiringly watch hurl itself into the distance, the man rubs his partially gloved hand over his jacket as an attempt to ease the amount of soil that had gathered on it, until they eventually rest on the sides of his hip. As you straighten your vest and take a step toward the closed fence door, you hear him remark as he smartly turns on his heel and escapes from the corner of your eye. "This town brings 'em weird ones all in like a moth to a flame. May Dias not see the day me picking 'em off the street like rabid dogs."


The door knob rests heavily back on the door as a you hear a resonating thud emanate into the quiet home. As you stand and wait-studying the silence that ensues-your eyes fall on a most peculiar site. It appears to be an etch work on the plain wood finish of the door reflecting the most delicate craftsmanship. On closer examination you realize it is a scene depicting a central human figure playing what appeared to be a village lute. You squint against the beautiful carving as if to help your mind comprehend the cryptic message buried in the depth of each deliberate and intricate niche.

The lute exhumes forth a surreal haze that seems real enough to make you want to reach out into it, only to be rudely stopped short as your fingers bend on solid wood and dismaying reality. You trace your finger tips along impressions of thick smoke that poises itself to presently take comprehensible shape. You see what appears to be a demonoid spewing fiery hell that curles and twistes until it starts to resemble a suited knight. Human bodies, with arms clawing for reprieve and eyes filled with horror lay at his feet. A river of flames creeps up behind them and leads up to a form-a beastman-fastened to a pole and bleeding. They had done this. They had hunted him, tied him down and cut him-hurt him. Why ? For the crime of being different ? And blood of wrath now flows down from open wounds and erupts into an inferno of vengence and seeks its liberators, just as the hunter becomes the hunted.

You start to move away from the door, and the different perception uncoveres further depictions all intertwined within each other-dragons, mechanoids, thievlings-all living forever in a fleeting moment of thier imaginary existence, forever epitomized on this plain wooden door. Stories. The lute and its owner were playing us stories. Life, love and hate in various different contexts.
How fitting you think to yourself and smile. How appropraite too, that the home of the one of the greatest bards of his era would entice you with a tale as you lift the knocker again to stir an announcement of your arrival.

"You make a rukus out there again an' i swear ill 'ave your hide !"

You jump in your leggings and awkwardly apologize through the door.

"What in the name of Razoa's corn infested toe to YOU want ?", you hear another muffled scream.

You explain that you are an outlander who has read a considerable amount on him and would like to meet him in person.

"Ai ? And why would you want to do that ? And what makes you think i am eager to chastise my eyes with the sight of the likes of you ?"

You hesitate for a moment, and then sheepishly say that you are looking for stories only he can tell you.

You stand for what seems to be several minutes in uneasy silence.

"Leave your boots, jacket and your smell at the door and make your visit in haste."

You hear your heart hammer violently against your chest. You have travelled over lands that leave ice in your beard and those which burn your feet in search of this man, and as it dawns on you that you might at last stand face to face with legend, you feel yourself sweat in your gloves. With a deep breath and shaky fingers, you push the door open, stoop forward to watch your head and walk in.

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