The Storyteller

A fire crackles in an inn along the road
The snow falls quietly in the night
Folk drink their mulled wine and ale
Their toils shared in the smokey room
The rusted door bursts open
Letting in the cold and frost
An old man brushes off the night
As he takes in the smoky room

He sees a crowd of plain folk
Dirty from their days work
Tired from years of servitude
Lines deep on cragged faces
They take him in with blank stares
Another stranger from the road
His beard gray with age,
his eyes full of wisdom
Dirt from the road tells of his travels
But they see so much more

They see a bard, a storyteller of old
By the look of the harp in his pack
Their eyes begin to sprinkle with life
He moves with a grace carved with age
As he easies his burden in a darken corner
Eyes never leave him, hopeful for his tales
A bar maiden whispers her plea
As she pours life into his mug

He regards her request in quiet,
Sipping warmth into his veins
Then with a nod, he shuffles forth
To ply his trade once more
The crowd hushes as he tunes his strings
Murmurs vanish to the snow
As once more he tells his tales
With the aid of the crackling fire

He tells of kings, and brave heroes of the past
And the battles they fought and lost
Villains so cruel, maidens so fair
Each receiving their just due
He tells of lost love in a simple form
Till tears from the folk begin to swell
He uses his voice to set the mood
His eyes piercing their very soul
He weaves a simple magic over the crowd
Binding them as his own

By the end of night his throat is raw
The candle glow have dimmed
Copper and silver fill his hat
From faces looking less grim
The storyteller retires to a room
Bones creaking with age
For tomorrow the lonely road calls,
tomorrow another story begins