The Storyteller

“Boy things have changed.” Muttered an ancient looking gray haired, scruffy looking man seated at the bar. “It used to be, that a man could turn in any direction and find someone he could trust. Nowadays, there’s nothing but dirty rotten good fer nuting gutter slime.”

“Easy old man, this night’s not good fer yer ramblins’.” The barkeep cautioned. He glanced quickly about. “There be strangers about, a rough lot they be. I’ll not be wanting trouble in me place now.”

“Rough?” asked the man. “I’ll show ya rough...Where is this shit for brains who thinks he’s tough? I’ll show him...Why in my day, I stood at Fallows Pass and single handily held it against the maraudin devil orcs.”

Carver had been working at this bar for three years and had heard the story several times. Not even a free drink would stop him now. He turned from the bar and went to clean the tables. He reached for a half full mug, but as if in a daze he overreached and tipped it onto the floor. Cursing he bent to retrieve it.

With a splintering crash the inn door collapsed onto the floor. Four men dressed similar enough to be soldiers forced their way through the entry. “Bah this ones fer the gutter… Too old, lets stick em and git.” His companions roared their agreement.

All of a sudden the old man came alive, whirling in a blur. His cloak flew off into the faces of two of his tormentors and a stool took a third in the face sending him reeling backward into the wall where he slid to the ground. A mug took the first man free of the cloak and the second never got free. Carver was in complete shock. It had happened in seconds. The remaining man stood in shock as the old man towered over him.

“Hmmm, you’ll have to change those trousers boy!” The old man turned and shuffled back to the bar. The young soldier helped his comrades out into the street.

Carver slowly made his way back to the bar. As he was rounding the corner he could hear the old man muttering just loud enough to here.

“They was dumb em orcs. Near every one thought they was facing an army, but they’d come only later. 400 died afore I fixed one with me blade. Another twenty died afore they turned and fled fer the first time.” He paused and looked at his hand. In it was the handle of a mug. Confusion passed across his face for only a moment before he resumed his story.

Carver slipped into the backroom, fearing the soldiers return. He had never put any belief in the old mans story. Until now! He poured a full measure of his finest rum and brought it out to the old man. Carefully, he placed the rum on the bar in front of the old man..

The old man stopped talking the moment the rum was placed in front of him and inhaled deeply. A tear formed at the corner of his eye. “Ah lad, this is the finest rum I’ve seen since my wedding night to the Queen of Tri is tam. It’s too bad about that slaying their husbands’ thing after ya knock em up.” He snorted in mirth, spraying the bar with mucus. “Probably still looking fer me… Apparently they can’t give birth less the daddy’s dead.” He brought the rum to his lips and sipped. “Yup, she should be with child nye on 80 years now.”

Carver had never heard this story before. He only wondered a moment if there was a place called Tri ist Tam. Then he smiled to himself. Of course there was, right across the bar from him.