Tales of TanCred; The Formation of a New Nation (Part I)

Updated on May 11, 2017

The Skolland Tavern

The Storyteller woke to the sound of the brush strokes of a cleaning maiden. She 'wapped' him on the boots multiple times until the snoring old man moved his feet, so she may clean under them. He had left quite a mess from the tellings of the night before. The barkeep came over with a veggie drink that cut the hangover down before it could take hold. "Breakfast will be brought to you, just find a table the maidens haven't cleaned yet and leave the dishes when you finish, " the barkeep called back to him, hand polishing the inside of a glass.

The Skolland Tavern was famous for its ale, delicious meats plus veggie compliments, and the storyteller. Only known as the Storyteller, or self-proclaimed wizard of the word. He stayed at the Tavern, was rather quiet as he slept during the day in his bed, and not in a chair upright.

The climate was harsh, the land rather harsh, and the animals even tougher. Hard place to love if it weren't for the tremendous amount of natural beauty abound. The lush jungles to the west, the coastal regions to the north, northeast, and the plains to the east. To the south, canyon lands and deserts dotted with oasis. To the southwest, mountain ranges that scraped the sky, the conductors of the weather stayed atop these peaks. Or so told the Storyteller, some say he comes from those mountains and yet others say he comes from across the seas, or the plains. Truth was, nobody but the King and Barkeep knew when he showed up and where he comes from. They are not telling anyone.

The Storyteller slept for two nights after his last performance. Delivering the story of the Satjon Invasion, well took a grand effort to tell with the right gusto. The story it told depicts a crucial time in the formation of the Kingdom, in which they lived in and loved.

He wandered downstairs early in the evening, the third day of rest, and loaded his pipe slowly. Obvious his old bones had some rust on them from the extended rest. "I fix you up a lubricator, double sxotch?" asked the Barman.

Skolland Tavern

With gratitude, the Storyman sat down in his customary chair and proceeded to slowly puff on his pipe. He gazed out upon those gathered at the village, not quite a full house with enough room for ale to be spilled and none be offended. He shuffled his great weight to pull out a pouch from his back pocket, placed it on his lap and proceeded to clean out his wooden pipe. A rather simple humorous moment, as the older man grumbled and farted as he did this. Sadly, no one in the Tavern was able to enjoy a laugh. Other than the Barkeep, "I caught you," he laughed smoothly, handing over two pints of lubricators. A drink created by the two for old bones, "all I ask is that you clean up any tread marks left on my tavern floor after that one!"

The two longtime friends shared a laugh, "Will we be expecting the King to this week's tellings?" The Storyteller asked, part of his ritual as he built up the energy and mind for what he loved.

"No, he is up north. Something about a quarrel between old families in SaxenMark." The Keep informed the Storyteller, with an as a matter of factly smoothness, all the while polishing glasses. This just meant he could leave the extra theatrics for another day, the King received the full show. Naturally, in those days.

The large double doors were slammed open, the sound usually signaled the entrance of a hero. Or, the self-proclaimed type. In this instance, there was a rather large man that entered the hall. A few shades darker than snow with brilliant yellow hair that was pulled back into a wild braid, he looked as if he had just traveled a few leagues.

There were 3 men with him; A medium built man, dark as night with hair the same brilliant yellow as the large man, A giant of a man, bald and covered in so many scars it was a million stories in one glimpse, and a smaller man, who carried what looked like a bundle of something important. The storyteller slyly took in the group, they all had a similar facial bone structure and hair color, if not for bald-y. The large man came directly to the Bar and slammed his hand down with force.

"Four mug of some watered ale, to be followed by your finest ale." He proclaimed to the Keep, who without pause did so smoothly. Pulling 8 polished mugs out, filling the first four with his finest. Giving the yellow-haired man pause, until the keep slid them over saying, "Water your own ale down, I wouldn't do that to my brew." He smiled at the man, who understood and nodded to him. Leaving with 8 mugs.

"A young hero, it seems," said the Storyteller to the Barman, "seems to have a good head on his shoulders though. Didn't slash you down for assuming control in the exchange, but had enough mind to show his strength. I think the bartop is still shaking from that strike."

"Yes," said the Barman, polishing a tankard this time, "he had honesty in his eyes. Plus, his men remained quite and took a table with no fight. Gruff looking men," he paused to watch the four gulp down the first mugs easily, wipe their mouths and smile broadly. "Well, they like my ale. Enough for me." The Barkeep waved the conversation off.

The Storyteller finished his second lubricator and as he finished the last drop, a sliding sound of his performer was a signal of the final stages of his ritual. A few regulars moved into the barside seats, knowing the show was about to begin.


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