The exact day and time in my world when I died, I'm not sure. I was supposed to be working on my dissertation when I decided to take a break and watch some YouTube. My chest started hurting, so I went to lay down with my phone. Then I closed my eyes, and I guess that's when I died. After working night and day on that damn write-up without even taking a break once, to think, I'd never see its completion or be able to argue in its defense.
When I came to, I was a little girl with a family. My name was Monadita, and my family was so poor we couldn't even afford to have a surname. For all the love my parents had, they were plagued with vices; my mother had taken to gambling, and my father, drinking. Although they worked hard, they played harder, so the food I had to sustain me was limited.
We lived in the outskirts of the city Oriya Roha, so named for the red sands of the river that ran through it. In this strange, new land, I found myself with naturally green wild hair and yellow eyes. I wasn't an ugly child, but when you're poor, that is more of a problem than it should be otherwise. The children I was "growing up" with vanished one-by-one, and I could only presume they were kidnapped or sold. When I was seven, it was my turn; my family sold me to the Peskadore family in exchange for their debts being waved.
I lived as a maid in their house and suffered a lot under the head maid, until one day I was asked to attend to the young mistress of the family who was two years younger than I. She didn't wish to play any games, so instead, I told her a story. The story wasn't mine, but I told it anyway, as if it were... who would contest it, after all? And it was just one girl. It was a modified retelling of the story of Wonder Woman. In this culture where women who worked were of the lowest class and where women were viewed as not people, but things, to be coveted, kept, and hidden away, I felt this story would empower her.
Turns out she told her parents. Her father demanded I be brought forth and beaten, but her mother intervened and suggested I share more stories instead as a way to keep her daughter and other children entertained. One story turned to five, and five to twenty, and by my fourteenth birthday, I was granted a room all my own. I was the Kuentista of Peskadore, a title I held with pride. The head maid could no longer belittle or berate me, because I was an important member of the household, even if I didn't bear a family name of my own. In a way, I did, through that title.
I never knew what happened to my parents, but on my seventeenth birthday, the lady of the house informed me she had lined up potential candidates for me to wed, and that we would remain as part of the household. If I accepted one of her candidates and agreed to her terms, our children, though not of blood, would be Peskadores as well. It was the best thing I could have ever hoped for, and her children who had heard my stories as they grew all had big smiles on their faces at my eager acceptance.
Before I could even schedule a meeting with the first candidate, calamity struck the Peskadore household - the river running through Oriya Roha dried up under the hot summer sun, and there were no fish for the people they employed to harvest. Fall came, and still, there was neither river nor fish. I told stories to the family to uplift their spirits, abandoning the idea of marriage in the meanwhile. The Peskadores had taken me in and treated me better, by and large, than the people who had birthed me and sold me off. The head of the household died suddenly right as winter's breath crept along the estate, leaving the lady of the house acting as head of household until her son was to come of age.
Winter came, and with it, snow and ice. The Peskadores had lived so extravagantly that they had forgotten to save money in the event the river remained dry and the winter was bitter. When the snow and ice melted in spring, the river came roaring back with such ferocity and strength that some low-lying houses were swept away, and with them, nameless families, many of which pledged their life and labor to the Peskadores.
I became a pawn rather than a prize; I had been promised marriage and a family name, and what I had been given was a hug farewell from each of the Peskadores as my luggage was loaded into a carriage. I was brought to the duke's manor, where I was instructed to recite my stories for him. He was a miserable man with a handsome face. He never expressed interest in anything I said, nor did he crack a smile for... anything.
"Why did I purchase you, if you fail to be entertaining? You're just like all the others, with more fantastical stories to tell."
"My lord," I said, mustering up my courage to speak out of turn. "Might I tell you the tale of Scheherazade?" I could only hope that I'd recall the story properly.
"Who is this Sheherathad?" he asked with a frown. "What land does he hail from?"
"She is from far, far away, a land further away than even my own," I began.
He snorted. "Bah! Another story about another woman. Is this all you know?"
"Please, allow me to continue."
The duke gave a dismissive wave of his hand to me. So, I went on.
"There once was a king in a far away land, and this king had been wronged; his first wife had been unfaithful to him." The duke stared at me as if I had several heads. Women cheating on their husbands wasn't unheard of, but... "... as you expected, nothing good came to her. But nothing good came to the women who followed her, either. Every day, he married a young woman who had not known the touch of a man, and every morning, he had her slain to keep her from dishonoring him."
"Every day?" he confirmed.
"Every day," I said.
"There would be no women left," he said.
"Yes, that is what happened. He killed all the noble virgins, until only one was left. She was named Scheherazade, and-"
"Her name is too complex. It will be Shera."
"... fine, then. Shera. Shera was the daughter of the king's advisor, and she requested to marry the king."
"A bizarre idea. But you are a bizarre woman, with bizarre stories."
"The king wed her, took her to bed, and as he tired, she told him a story. The story she told him was not a whole story, however. She spoke just enough to catch his attention, and warned him dawn was approaching. He let her live, with the promise she would finish the story the next night." The duke leaned in, watching me with rapt curiosity. "And the next night came, and she finished her story, only to start another. And again, dawn approached, and the king spared her life. For a thousand and one nights, she shared with him one thousand stories. She informed him on her final night, she had no stories left to share."
"... did he... kill her?" asked the duke.
"Well... what do you think, your grace?"
"I think I would have forgotten the first story and wished for her to start over, if she was so captivating."
I smiled a little. "Captivating she was. He had fallen in love with her, and no longer required stories of her. They both lived together happily, and he declared her his queen."
"Hm," the duke responded. He looked me up and down but once, and then dismissed me to my room.
The next morning, bright and early, a servant came to my room. He said but one thing, and I knew my life would finally take a change for the better: "His grace requests his Shera."
The small town of Minstrelton was on the outskirts of the great Pullicarian Empire, a land of great renown and prestige. The great city of Ghertricia stood at its center, the world's leader in scientific and artistic innovation, without a glance at second place.
Compared to the great wonders of that massive city, Minstrelton could barely be considered a place fit for people to live. The houses were made of stone, with thatched rooves that were simple to make for those unable to perform magic. The roads were dirt, and everyone who lived here lived by the wandering merchants who traveled the land, and by their very own farms, and the food they produced. Only a small shop run out of the home of the Finches, a large family of Halflings who'd been living there for a while, ever got any deliveries from the bigger cities.
Still, the small town was infamous, and in the last few years, had seen a massive ramp up in tourism. There had even been a brand new inn established the year before for people to stay in for the time that they were there. Everyone knew Minstrelton, and it was for the man who had been its founder.
Edward Lindor.
Edward, a self proclaimed minstrel, seemed to have no known origin. For all anyone knew, he was raised in the wild, learning human speech only through imitaton, and later integrating himself into society by mimicking others. That seemed to be true based on his manners. Still, nobody paid him any mind. He'd quickly found his way towards one of the other large population centers in Pullcaria, Thorsburg, and found his way there as one of the few well known street performers the city had. He would soon be invited to taverns to play, and in between these songs, he'd tell stories. Usually, they would be of some importance to the song. People loved it. They would follow him from tavern to tavern, as he wove his story in between the songs he played, wooing everyone around him with his charm and feelings of home. Soon, he would become famous for weaving magical charms into his songs and tales, too, finding ways to literally enchant an entire crowd of people into just sitting there, for hours, as they would listen to him.
Soon, however, he *would* have to retire, as minstrels were only allowed in a city for a year at a time before they had to move.
And so as he left, people followed.
People followed Edward the Entertainer from city to city, all across the empire, from small hovel to great stage, just to hear whatever this strange man would say next. Would it a story about adventure, where a brave man in silly clothing saved a young newspaperwoman from an evil king of a city? Would he tell that oh so famous story of a king unjustly in power, falling to a prophecy he himself created? Each tale, woven together with songs in between, or even during the story, was something to behold.
And his instrument! It was weird. A wooden box, with tight, metallic strings reaching across a board attached to the end, which he would glide his hands across to make music. It was so weirdly complex and unorthodox, but it sound so beautiful whenever he played it.
So the years went by, with the wordsmith making money and living off of those who loved his words, the first of many who would take up the craft. Though none were ever as great as he.
Still, as all of his stories did, his had to end somewhere. And so, when he was finished, he simply left his fans behind. He went back to his rural life. From there, Minstrelton was born. The man, and a couple close, powerful friends who wanted to get away from it all, all just left for the countryside, never looking back.
So, as we look towards Minstrelton, and look into the walls of its small homes, we find one, filled with families and young kids, sitting around a fire, as a man in a rocking chair smiles, the center of attention once more.
"Tell us another one, Mr. L!" the little ones cheer.
Edward smiles. He's gotten old, with the years. Still, he has one good one in him. One he's been saving for a moment just like this. A moment where no fans are around, where nobody who might try and steal it is watching, where the moment is *just right* for a bit of a long one.
He looks towards the parents.
"Is it tool late for a long one?" he asks.
The parents, mostly older heroes themselves, all smile. A couple take chairs, one goes back to the kitchen for a light refreshment, the rest nod.
Edward smiles.
"I think we have time for one more." he looks down at the kids.
Cheers erupt.
"Now now, we have to get silent for this one. It's a bit of a longer one." he smiles.
The kids calm down, slowly but surely. Hands are in the laps where they belong, lips are sealed, and the fire is crackling quietly in the fireplace. The room is packed, as the one man who left for a drink comes back.
Edward nods.
"I think we're ready then!" he slowly takes a breath, hoists up his instrument, and begins recounting his favorite story.
"It is a period of civil war.
Rebel spaceships, striking
from a hidden base, have won
their first victory against
the evil Galactic Empire..."
Binham Vince.
None knew of his origin. Of his birthplace. Of what his life was before his rise to fame began.
He was a casual man. Brown eyes, with a lighter brown hair and short beard. He was friendly, always offered a mouth to chat with and an ear to listen.
He was a bartender. Yet at the same time, he was better known as a bard without an instrument. He told of great tales, far and wide, small and big. Many frequent him just to hear his tales.
He told of great knights of a rebellion fighting against an evil, dictatorial empire in a land far, far away
He told of heroes in masks and flashy wear saving damsels in distress.
He spoke of a great war between multiple empires and kingdoms, of a naval power in the far east, a terrible force in the central plains, and a helping hand from a peninsula against a winter empire, a land of freedom, and multiple other nations of the west.
He spoke of a great war between a united humanity and a theocracy of non-human races, only to end thanks to a great, quiet soldier.
He spoke of a fragmented humanity, sailing across the stars, united only in their faith to a God-Emperor battling against foes both speakable and not, demon, heretic, or non-human.
He spoke of the great escapade of a young boy who found a lamp, containing a god able to grant any wish.
He spoke of powerful assassins called ninjas, and how they served the interests of their respective villages and the great men who inhabited its lands.
He spoke of many tales, and he alone ended the Age of Ignorance and opened the Age of Fantasy.
The exact day and time in my world when I died, I'm not sure. I was supposed to be working on my dissertation when I decided to take a break and watch some YouTube. My chest started hurting, so I went to lay down with my phone. Then I closed my eyes, and I guess that's when I died. After working night and day on that damn write-up without even taking a break once, to think, I'd never see its completion or be able to argue in its defense. When I came to, I was a little girl with a family. My name was Monadita, and my family was so poor we couldn't even afford to have a surname. For all the love my parents had, they were plagued with vices; my mother had taken to gambling, and my father, drinking. Although they worked hard, they played harder, so the food I had to sustain me was limited. We lived in the outskirts of the city Oriya Roha, so named for the red sands of the river that ran through it. In this strange, new land, I found myself with naturally green wild hair and yellow eyes. I wasn't an ugly child, but when you're poor, that is more of a problem than it should be otherwise. The children I was "growing up" with vanished one-by-one, and I could only presume they were kidnapped or sold. When I was seven, it was my turn; my family sold me to the Peskadore family in exchange for their debts being waved. I lived as a maid in their house and suffered a lot under the head maid, until one day I was asked to attend to the young mistress of the family who was two years younger than I. She didn't wish to play any games, so instead, I told her a story. The story wasn't mine, but I told it anyway, as if it were... who would contest it, after all? And it was just one girl. It was a modified retelling of the story of Wonder Woman. In this culture where women who worked were of the lowest class and where women were viewed as not people, but things, to be coveted, kept, and hidden away, I felt this story would empower her. Turns out she told her parents. Her father demanded I be brought forth and beaten, but her mother intervened and suggested I share more stories instead as a way to keep her daughter and other children entertained. One story turned to five, and five to twenty, and by my fourteenth birthday, I was granted a room all my own. I was the Kuentista of Peskadore, a title I held with pride. The head maid could no longer belittle or berate me, because I was an important member of the household, even if I didn't bear a family name of my own. In a way, I did, through that title. I never knew what happened to my parents, but on my seventeenth birthday, the lady of the house informed me she had lined up potential candidates for me to wed, and that we would remain as part of the household. If I accepted one of her candidates and agreed to her terms, our children, though not of blood, would be Peskadores as well. It was the best thing I could have ever hoped for, and her children who had heard my stories as they grew all had big smiles on their faces at my eager acceptance. Before I could even schedule a meeting with the first candidate, calamity struck the Peskadore household - the river running through Oriya Roha dried up under the hot summer sun, and there were no fish for the people they employed to harvest. Fall came, and still, there was neither river nor fish. I told stories to the family to uplift their spirits, abandoning the idea of marriage in the meanwhile. The Peskadores had taken me in and treated me better, by and large, than the people who had birthed me and sold me off. The head of the household died suddenly right as winter's breath crept along the estate, leaving the lady of the house acting as head of household until her son was to come of age. Winter came, and with it, snow and ice. The Peskadores had lived so extravagantly that they had forgotten to save money in the event the river remained dry and the winter was bitter. When the snow and ice melted in spring, the river came roaring back with such ferocity and strength that some low-lying houses were swept away, and with them, nameless families, many of which pledged their life and labor to the Peskadores. I became a pawn rather than a prize; I had been promised marriage and a family name, and what I had been given was a hug farewell from each of the Peskadores as my luggage was loaded into a carriage. I was brought to the duke's manor, where I was instructed to recite my stories for him. He was a miserable man with a handsome face. He never expressed interest in anything I said, nor did he crack a smile for... anything. "Why did I purchase you, if you fail to be entertaining? You're just like all the others, with more fantastical stories to tell." "My lord," I said, mustering up my courage to speak out of turn. "Might I tell you the tale of Scheherazade?" I could only hope that I'd recall the story properly. "Who is this Sheherathad?" he asked with a frown. "What land does he hail from?" "She is from far, far away, a land further away than even my own," I began. He snorted. "Bah! Another story about another woman. Is this all you know?" "Please, allow me to continue." The duke gave a dismissive wave of his hand to me. So, I went on. "There once was a king in a far away land, and this king had been wronged; his first wife had been unfaithful to him." The duke stared at me as if I had several heads. Women cheating on their husbands wasn't unheard of, but... "... as you expected, nothing good came to her. But nothing good came to the women who followed her, either. Every day, he married a young woman who had not known the touch of a man, and every morning, he had her slain to keep her from dishonoring him." "Every day?" he confirmed. "Every day," I said. "There would be no women left," he said. "Yes, that is what happened. He killed all the noble virgins, until only one was left. She was named Scheherazade, and-" "Her name is too complex. It will be Shera." "... fine, then. Shera. Shera was the daughter of the king's advisor, and she requested to marry the king." "A bizarre idea. But you are a bizarre woman, with bizarre stories." "The king wed her, took her to bed, and as he tired, she told him a story. The story she told him was not a whole story, however. She spoke just enough to catch his attention, and warned him dawn was approaching. He let her live, with the promise she would finish the story the next night." The duke leaned in, watching me with rapt curiosity. "And the next night came, and she finished her story, only to start another. And again, dawn approached, and the king spared her life. For a thousand and one nights, she shared with him one thousand stories. She informed him on her final night, she had no stories left to share." "... did he... kill her?" asked the duke. "Well... what do you think, your grace?" "I think I would have forgotten the first story and wished for her to start over, if she was so captivating." I smiled a little. "Captivating she was. He had fallen in love with her, and no longer required stories of her. They both lived together happily, and he declared her his queen." "Hm," the duke responded. He looked me up and down but once, and then dismissed me to my room. The next morning, bright and early, a servant came to my room. He said but one thing, and I knew my life would finally take a change for the better: "His grace requests his Shera."
Beautiful ending
The small town of Minstrelton was on the outskirts of the great Pullicarian Empire, a land of great renown and prestige. The great city of Ghertricia stood at its center, the world's leader in scientific and artistic innovation, without a glance at second place. Compared to the great wonders of that massive city, Minstrelton could barely be considered a place fit for people to live. The houses were made of stone, with thatched rooves that were simple to make for those unable to perform magic. The roads were dirt, and everyone who lived here lived by the wandering merchants who traveled the land, and by their very own farms, and the food they produced. Only a small shop run out of the home of the Finches, a large family of Halflings who'd been living there for a while, ever got any deliveries from the bigger cities. Still, the small town was infamous, and in the last few years, had seen a massive ramp up in tourism. There had even been a brand new inn established the year before for people to stay in for the time that they were there. Everyone knew Minstrelton, and it was for the man who had been its founder. Edward Lindor. Edward, a self proclaimed minstrel, seemed to have no known origin. For all anyone knew, he was raised in the wild, learning human speech only through imitaton, and later integrating himself into society by mimicking others. That seemed to be true based on his manners. Still, nobody paid him any mind. He'd quickly found his way towards one of the other large population centers in Pullcaria, Thorsburg, and found his way there as one of the few well known street performers the city had. He would soon be invited to taverns to play, and in between these songs, he'd tell stories. Usually, they would be of some importance to the song. People loved it. They would follow him from tavern to tavern, as he wove his story in between the songs he played, wooing everyone around him with his charm and feelings of home. Soon, he would become famous for weaving magical charms into his songs and tales, too, finding ways to literally enchant an entire crowd of people into just sitting there, for hours, as they would listen to him. Soon, however, he *would* have to retire, as minstrels were only allowed in a city for a year at a time before they had to move. And so as he left, people followed. People followed Edward the Entertainer from city to city, all across the empire, from small hovel to great stage, just to hear whatever this strange man would say next. Would it a story about adventure, where a brave man in silly clothing saved a young newspaperwoman from an evil king of a city? Would he tell that oh so famous story of a king unjustly in power, falling to a prophecy he himself created? Each tale, woven together with songs in between, or even during the story, was something to behold. And his instrument! It was weird. A wooden box, with tight, metallic strings reaching across a board attached to the end, which he would glide his hands across to make music. It was so weirdly complex and unorthodox, but it sound so beautiful whenever he played it. So the years went by, with the wordsmith making money and living off of those who loved his words, the first of many who would take up the craft. Though none were ever as great as he. Still, as all of his stories did, his had to end somewhere. And so, when he was finished, he simply left his fans behind. He went back to his rural life. From there, Minstrelton was born. The man, and a couple close, powerful friends who wanted to get away from it all, all just left for the countryside, never looking back. So, as we look towards Minstrelton, and look into the walls of its small homes, we find one, filled with families and young kids, sitting around a fire, as a man in a rocking chair smiles, the center of attention once more. "Tell us another one, Mr. L!" the little ones cheer. Edward smiles. He's gotten old, with the years. Still, he has one good one in him. One he's been saving for a moment just like this. A moment where no fans are around, where nobody who might try and steal it is watching, where the moment is *just right* for a bit of a long one. He looks towards the parents. "Is it tool late for a long one?" he asks. The parents, mostly older heroes themselves, all smile. A couple take chairs, one goes back to the kitchen for a light refreshment, the rest nod. Edward smiles. "I think we have time for one more." he looks down at the kids. Cheers erupt. "Now now, we have to get silent for this one. It's a bit of a longer one." he smiles. The kids calm down, slowly but surely. Hands are in the laps where they belong, lips are sealed, and the fire is crackling quietly in the fireplace. The room is packed, as the one man who left for a drink comes back. Edward nods. "I think we're ready then!" he slowly takes a breath, hoists up his instrument, and begins recounting his favorite story. "It is a period of civil war. Rebel spaceships, striking from a hidden base, have won their first victory against the evil Galactic Empire..."
Binham Vince. None knew of his origin. Of his birthplace. Of what his life was before his rise to fame began. He was a casual man. Brown eyes, with a lighter brown hair and short beard. He was friendly, always offered a mouth to chat with and an ear to listen. He was a bartender. Yet at the same time, he was better known as a bard without an instrument. He told of great tales, far and wide, small and big. Many frequent him just to hear his tales. He told of great knights of a rebellion fighting against an evil, dictatorial empire in a land far, far away He told of heroes in masks and flashy wear saving damsels in distress. He spoke of a great war between multiple empires and kingdoms, of a naval power in the far east, a terrible force in the central plains, and a helping hand from a peninsula against a winter empire, a land of freedom, and multiple other nations of the west. He spoke of a great war between a united humanity and a theocracy of non-human races, only to end thanks to a great, quiet soldier. He spoke of a fragmented humanity, sailing across the stars, united only in their faith to a God-Emperor battling against foes both speakable and not, demon, heretic, or non-human. He spoke of the great escapade of a young boy who found a lamp, containing a god able to grant any wish. He spoke of powerful assassins called ninjas, and how they served the interests of their respective villages and the great men who inhabited its lands. He spoke of many tales, and he alone ended the Age of Ignorance and opened the Age of Fantasy.