Tales are timeless, immortal. Ever since humans can speak, they tell each other stories about grief, love, about dreams and life.
This story is dedicated to those who can work magic with their words…
Daghon is a storyteller, his entire life he travels around the world, in search for the perfect fairy tales and legends that wise men and other travellers tell him about the wonders of life and the mysteries around them.
Every year he travels into the world and goes north and south, east and west. And each year, on the shortest day of the year, he returns to his village to tell a story for everyone at the winter solstice celebration.
Everyone, the bakers and the farmers, the fishers and the weavers, are fascinated by Daghon’s stories. And after the tale is finished, he would disappear, like a shadow in the night.
Each story became more lively and exciting, and villagers would be waiting for his arrival, like he was a local hero.
But this year, everything was different for the storyteller. Many people from the village got ill, harvests failed by heavy rains and flooding of the river beds and the merchants didn’t come close to the village, scared that the misfortune was contagious.
And that is not all. After performing the ‘Tale of the Butterflies’ last year, Daghon was looking for an even better story. A tale that would make you rejoice, dream and smile. But he simply couldn’t find the perfect story. All tales he heard were old, heard too many times or simply not interesting enough.
The shortest day of the year came ever closer and was only two months ahead. Daghon decided he would go on one last journey to find his perfect story. He travelled north and south, east and west. All corners of the land he visited, by horse, boat or by foot, but alas! He returned empty handed, with no new pages added to his storybook. Daghon felt empty.
The night of the winter solstice celebration, just after sunset, a bonfire was lit, the tables were filled with refreshments and the druids read the stars for the new year’s prophecy: it would be a good and plentiful year, full of new joys. That news was positive and the villagers were relieved. Now they could celebrate for sure. The happy mood was well set when Daghon approached his stage.
Immediately, the crowd went silent and watched the storyteller, full of expectations. He looked a few years older somehow.
Nervous and sweating, Daghon stepped forward to face the villagers. He had no story to tell, he felt so ashamed!
Jenny, a young girl who just loves to hear Daghon tell his tales, jumped forward and hugged the man.
“Daghon, Daghon, Tell me a wonderful tale. My mother is ill, so I will have to listen for two!” she said with a beaming smile.
Now Daghon felt even worse. He took a deep breath and stared into the audience. “Dear people. For a year I have travelled and listened to everyone I met, the wise men and fools, elves and mermaids alike. I went north and south, east and west, but I found no story worthy to tell.” He said in a low voice.
Daghon finished and waited for a reaction. The villagers looked at him and thought he was joking. But when the storyteller remained silent, Jenny pulled his sleeve.
“What do you mean?” she asked him with a quivering voice. Daghon placed a hand on her shoulder and sighed.
“No story or legend I heard was good enough.” He explained.
“I travelled with a group of Dwarves to the eastern mountain of Nanuta, their sacred place, where they lit a fire as big as a castle. After the fire burned out they ran down the mountain sides, crying and howling like wolves, back into their caverns to spend the next three days celebrating life.
Next, I swam through the Red River, filled with the songs of the water-spriggans, towards the Elven woodlands. The Elves showed me the stars from up close, in a building with holes in the ceiling to mimic the sky at night. The stars were so close, I could almost touch them, it felt ever so magical.
When the Elves started their summer harvest, I went south to join a band of Orcish gypsies, who travelled from village to village to share their fabrics, jewels and songs. They showed me a life like no other, free as a bird to do whatever they please.
When they reached the western coast, I was allowed to sail with the blue-skinned Tahani Clan sailors. We took a tour towards the Isles of Moon and I saw proud Griffins tumble through the air. I even though to see one with a rider on its back. When we came close to the shore, I saw the young Seadragons practicing their diving skills.
The last part of my journey took me through the marshes on a small raft, through the lands of the Sirens back here. But I found no story.” He took a bow, with a blush of shame on his cheeks.
Just like every other year, Daghon disappeared into the dark night, without another word to say. He decided to start a new journey and joined the gypsy Orcs, only to return to his village the next year. He was too ashamed to return before that time.
What he did not know, was the following:
After his silent departure, the villagers threw a feast like no other. Everyone enjoyed the good fortunes and spoke of last year. The celebration went on well into the early morning.
Jenny, who was too young to stay up the entire celebration, returned to her home and joined her sick mother in their bed.
“Tell me Jenny, did Daghon have a good story this year?” the mother asked. Jenny nodded with a smile. “It was the best of stories, he told us about his journey into far lands. It sounded ever so fantastic and wonderful!” she told with a spark of excitement in her eyes. The mother smiled. “Well then, before we go to sleep, you must tell me everything that Daghon told you.”
Jenny smiled from ear to ear and started telling Daghon’s story, the tale of the storyteller.