Chapter 1 - The Storyteller

Here is chapter 1 of my unfinished story. I have created a plot but this chapter just sets the scene and backstory while introducing one of the main characters, I wanted to get some feedback on it 1st

The day was warm and sticky like honey. The trees fidgeted under the sun and the birds swept through the thick air searching for shade. Mountains bordered the east of Theswidge Valley and the Great Sea washed against the west. In this particular clearing, the trees grew sparsely, allowing the burning sun to scorch the dry, dusty path. The dirt road wound through the fields and slipped past ancient trees as it headed over the hills into the distance.

A lone traveller, draped in loose blue robes, strolled along the road. His grey boots crunched against the gravel as he effortlessly tackled the inclines of the hills, leaning his weight on a twisted, wooden walking stick. The man was old, which was clear by the wrinkles scribbled over his face, but he walked with a youthful bounce while he smoked on a long tobacco pipe.

This traveller, whoever he was, had a long white beard that was plaited neatly at the end and reached down to his navel. His hair was equally as white and flowed from under a large pointy blue hat and down his back like melted snow. The white of his hair drew attention to his blue eyes that wandered the landscape ahead; they were a blue that was deep like a vast ocean but light like a clear sky on a summer’s day. 

For several hours the traveller walked, he showed no sign of fatigue - which was unusual as the nearest settlement he could have come from on that path was several days journey away. It was rare to see a man walking this road without the aid of a horse drawn cart at least. The burning sun left the open plane of Theswidge Valley scorched and cracked but the traveller did not let the heat affect his walk.

Finally, the uneven ground began to level off and in the distance was a wide meandering river of deep green that flowed northwards into the horizon. Nested in one of the rivers curves, was a small village, a clump of shabby, wooden buildings with thatched roofs and small brick chimneys. Around the village, several large barn-houses were dotted among the yellow fields of corn, wheat and barley. Cattle and sheep grazed lazily under the sun in fenced off sections of the fields. The old traveller smiled to himself as he took another puff from his pipe and walked further towards the village.

This village was called Soor and was home to Nomads. The race of Nomads looked just like you and I would. Nomads did not concern themselves with magic or religion, they cared only for the land they lived on. Nomads were incredible farmers and knew the way the land worked better than any, some say the Nomads share a mystical bond with the rock and soil they worked with which is why they had such good fortune when it came to harvests. They were a fairly primitive race, their buildings were basic and their clothes were plain cloth and wool but they sustained themselves well and remained peaceful.

The traveller approached the village and children rushed over to him. ‘Tangamp! You’re back!’ They cried with joy. ‘Have you brought us some more of those caramel apples? Have you brought any cinnamon buns?’

‘Now, now!’ Tangamp the traveller said, holding his arms up in surrender to the children’s hugs. ‘Nice to see you too!’ He laughed as they walked deeper into the village. It was a busy day in Soor, the market stalls were open and farmers were selling their produce to the villagers. There was a stall overflowing with apples, pears, grapes, melons and peaches while another was straining with the weight of the crates resting on top of it. Crates of carrots, broccoli, cabbage, potatoes, peas, parsnips and all sorts of other weird and wonderful vegetables sat on display in the sun, ripe and colourful.

Another stall was the butchers, rabbit, lamb, beef, pork and chicken hung from strings or lay in barrels of salt while the butcher served the large crowds surrounding him. The butcher’s apron was dirty and bloody and sweat dripped from his forehead as he cut large fillets of meat for the village’s mothers. There was a stall selling herbs and spices, another selling potions and remedies and another selling tunics and cloaks. In the centre of the village, was a large pavilion where several jugglers entertained the crowds and another man held a large hawk on his arm and was showing the children how it caught its prey. Dancers dressed in red, tasselled tunics danced to the sound of a lute and a drum, they swung their arms enthusiastically into the air and sang stories of summer and harvest. Beyond the pavilion, more stalls were tempting the villagers, a carpenter sold wooden tools to the farmers and hand-crafted toys to the children while a lady at another stall tempted the women with wooden necklaces and bracelets coloured with paint.

‘It’s good to see you again, Tangamp.’ Said a tall and muscular man as he walked towards the traveller, arms outstretched. ‘I was wondering when you would next be passing through.’ He smiled.

‘It’s been a long year,’ Tangamp replied, ‘I’m glad to see your harvest was a success this summer again.’ He said, pointing at the stalls fresh produce.

‘We did well, yes. The Elves are due any day to collect their order but we’ll have plenty left to go around, we’re in for a safe winter once again’ the man said. Soor may have been a village of Nomads, but it was buried deep within Elven lands and the Nomads here had to share their produce with the Elves every harvest. A hawk would fly into the village several weeks after the harvest began with a message from the Elven cities, it would say that a cart would arrive shortly to collect the food they needed. A few days later, a golden cart would approach in the sky, pulled by a mighty griffin, a proud creature which had the legs and body of a mighty lion but the wings and head of an elegant eagle. The Elves would take what they needed and leave, they wouldn’t disturb the Nomad village until the next harvest.

‘So, how fairs things across the land?’ Asked the man.

‘Much the same as usual, although the Dwarves have begun construction of a new mining area in the Yatuk Mountains. I suspect they’ve found more gemstones. What about your village, Patrod, apart from the harvest, how have things been?’

‘Yes, yes, all well. More and more elves have been crossing Theswidge Valley recently, great numbers of them ride past weekly. I feel like they’re up to something again.’ Patrod said, with a worried look.

‘No one ever knows what the Elves are up to except the Elves themselves! If they are heading somewhere, I’m sure the Elder Council are aware.’

‘Maybe so, who am I to worry about the Elves affairs anyway? We have had a good harvest and now the story teller has arrived to end the day with an exciting tale " I am happy!’ Patrod chortled, he took Tangamp to the village inn so he can catch up on the latest goings on across the land.

It was evening by the time Tangamp arrived at the pavilion to share his stories. He had drunk several goblets of mead and had a slightly fuzzy head but he continued walking to the centre of the pavilion and perched himself on a small stool. The villagers always looked forward to the day the story teller arrived, they had already gathered in a great crowd. They drank wine and mead and ate bread while they chatted happily waiting for Tangamp to get started.

‘Can you tell us a really good story first, Gampy?’ Said a little boy no older than four. He sat cross-legged in front on Tangamp with the other children eagerly awaiting a story.

‘Ok, ok… I know just the one’ Tangamp leaned closer to the ground and aimed the top of his walking stick at the floor. A spark shot out its end and hit the ground. It instantly burst into a flame and grew quickly into a small fire. There was no wood beneath it, in fact, it burned completely on its own and did not waver or weaken when a breeze flew past. A round of applause came from the crowd, they were all fascinated when Tangamp used magic in their village. Everyone knew Tangamp was a wizard, it was common fact that this story telling traveller was magical, he spent a lot of his time travelling alone across the land spreading stories to the different races but he always spoke of his adventures and battles from long ago where he would use magic to defeat deadly foes or to save people from horrible ends. The crowd went silent as Tangamp lit hit pipe, took a swig of mead and began his first story.

 

‘Now as you know, the land of Penthor is divided into several Kingdoms. For the purpose of keeping this tale simple, I won’t go in to detail about them all but there are three main Kingdoms you should already be familiar with. We have the Elven Kingdom of Tyllmas, where we are now. Then there is the Dwarven Kingdom of Dal’Gaed and finally, the Nomad Kingdom of Medowan.’

‘Why do we not live in Medowan like all the other Nomads?’ Asked a young girl sitting to Tangamp’s right, playing with twigs.

‘That is the result of years of fighting, little one. The Great War that raged through these lands long ago left the Nomads weak and separated. Not all Nomads ever managed to return to their homeland and you will find Nomad colonies all over Penthor, just like this one.’ The adults in the crowd scowled at Tangamp’s honest response, the hatred for living in Elven territory was clear on some of their faces.

‘Now,’ Tangamp continued, clutching his pipe, ‘the Three Kingdoms have shared peace for many years now, it may be an uneasy peace at times, but it is a long way from what Penthor used to be.

‘The Nomads have always lived on Penthor, and used to thrive in the woodlands and countryside doing what they do best, farming. These are your ancestors, and they were the original occupants of this land. It was not long, however, until others started arriving. The Elves came first on their white and gold ships. They came to Penthor only to explore more of the land beyond their Realm and seek wisdom. They did not cause damage or harm to Penthor or the native Nomads, but in fact remained inconspicuous and built great settlements in the trees. The Dwarves came next, they arrived on great warships and came to Penthor looking for one thing only, wealth.’

There were many grunts and rude comments in the audience when the Dwarves were mentioned. One of the wheat farmers spat on the ground in front of him and a mother picked up her young daughter and walked her away from the crowd so she could hear no more.

‘The Dwarves buried themselves in the mountains and began to dig away at the gems and stones that had laid untouched deep underground but soon, their notorious greed led them to look further across Penthor for more riches. Their quest for wealth brought with it violence and chaos as the Nomads tried to protect their homeland. Inevitably, they were forced out of their settlements and pushed into exile. They fought for their freedom of course, but roughly crafted spears and arrows did little against the devastating weapons of war the Dwarves possessed. Great axes, sharp as mountain tops, made of adamant and encrusted with gems, there were crossbows which effortlessly pierced through the thickest of armours and hammers harder than stone but lighter than a branch.

‘It wasn’t long before the Dwarves soon encroached on the Elves and their new settlements built high within the trees, this is when the real trouble began. Elves and Dwarves are so very different in nature, and of course this led to conflict. Penthor is a rich land, abundant in plants and animals, something the Elves did not want the Dwarves tainting and so, naturally, war erupted. ‘Years passed, scores of Elves, Dwarves and Nomads died. More and more ships of armies come from overseas and left devastating damage to the land. The Nomads journeyed far and wide to find new places to keep safe in but could never settle for long, the power of the Elves and Dwarves left nowhere untouched.

‘No one ever believed the war would end until, during one long and tiring battle under the mountains of Kelvaden, something happened that has not been seen or heard of ever before in any lore or history of this world. The battle was intense, Dwarves, Elves and Nomads fought for days and then, lighting pierced the skies and the clouds tore open. Great winged beasts flew down from the heavens. They were as big as houses, their tails long and spiked and their heads were horned and scaly. Their cries echoed through the land and they swept over the armies and exhaled burning hot flames which left nothing but death behind them. They were dragons.’

‘Dragons! In Penthor? Your stories get more far-fetched every year Tangamp!’ Joked one of the farmers which caused a ripple of laughter through the crowds. Tangamp looked sternly into the farmers eyes before continuing his story regardless.

‘The dragons sent the armies fleeing to their corners of the land and ended the battle within hours. For weeks, dragons would be seen sweeping through the sky, scanning for any prey below. They destroyed Nomadic towns, Elven settlements and Dwarven mines leaving nothing but smoke in their wake. Soon, the armies all had a new common enemy. Talks began, and negotiations were made in the old Nomad city of Pueron, which we now know as the Citadel. The leaders of the races turned their focus to the dragons and created an unnerving alliance in hope to rid themselves of the dragon threat.’

‘Did they manage it? Did they kill the Dragons?’ A woman asked, she was the village’s herbalist. She spoke in a low voice and was leaning forwards, highly engrossed in the tale.

‘Yes and no,’ replied Tangamp who was stroking his beard thoughtfully. ‘They fought on the mountain tops and unleashed fury on the dragons. The Elves met them in the sky upon their magical griffins and would slash and stab at the dragon’s armoured skin. They began to take the dragons down, slowly but surely, but no sooner had they began to make progress, the dragons just disappeared. They flew off into the clouds and never appeared again, no one knows where they came from or why they left. Even today, the high rulers at the Citadel, the members of the Elder Council, all still fear the day that the dragons will return.’

‘Ridiculous! How can dragons just appear and disappear?’ Someone called from the audience, they had clearly drunk a fair amount of mead which was obvious from the slur in their words.

‘No one knows’ said Tangamp mysteriously. ‘Some believe the Gods themselves sent them to stop the bloodshed. Whatever the reason, it was the Dragons who stopped the war and without them, we wouldn’t all be here today.’

Author's Note

Let me know any feedback you have!