Blood of the Wanderer - Chapter One
In the tavern "Fox Lair", which is located in Mirva suburbs was always fun and noisy. A lonely wanderer entered it during the sunset. He was not clothed as a man form town, his face was hidden under the fields of a round straw hat. He took bitter herbal tea and salted rusks, and sat down in a corner, away from the light. He began to listen to the old Bara, the local narrator.
"Tell us about the Cloud City, Bara," the hunter asked with a bundle of hides on his shoulder.
"Don’t tell about the City, better tell us about the Clavier and the Watchmaker."
"Tell about Sleeping Fish."
"Tell me your new story, old man," said a squat voice with a shaven head covered with scars. And he added a couple of coins to his words. "You'll tell me well and I won’t hurt you. You know me."
All other tavern patrons fell silent as a head shaved man spoke. It seems that he was known not only by Bara.
The old man cleared his throat. He raised his eyes to the ceiling.
"It was a long time ago," he began.
Far to the north, in a city where half a goes day, and six months зкумфшды night, there lived a talented storyteller. In the local language - skald. Although he was young, the rumor about him was wide. Stories that he composed, people passed from mouth to mouth, as frozen travelers pass each other a bowl with a warming drink. Everything was in those stories, love, and courage, and passion, and hatred. There were giants and dwarfs, kings and sorcerers, talking beasts and forbidden books. But most importantly, there were people in them, in which the listeners recognized themselves. For that they were ready to listen to the skald day and night, a long northern day and a long northern night.
And when the day gives way to the night, in those lands a great holiday is celebrated. The morning of the Sun Threshold it is called. Fires are lit everywhere, and boys with girls jumping through them. On those bonfires cooks bake wonderful poppy pies, having tasted which, boys and girls drive round the fire dances. It happens that when the dance is disintegrating, not everyone can separate the palms. This is where the time for weddings come.
Also in the Morning of the Sun Threshold Master and Mistress of spring are selected. It must necessarily be a beautiful girl and a stately young man. Together they close the holiday and with their kiss they send the winter away, and bring spring to their harsh lands. Such is tradition.