All Killjoys knew The Storyteller by his reddish brown hooded cloak and goggles. The Storyteller's cloak was white, anyone would tell you that, but it became reddish brown from the dust and sand storms that would kick up. It was considered an honor to wash his cloak and bring it back to its cloud white self.
How, you maybe wandering, could a mere storyteller have such acclaim?
The Storyteller's voice was a huge part of his fame. It was a mesmerizing baritone that had the habit of rolling its R's. Listening to his voice was like snaring flies in a spider's web, once caught one could not untangle themselves from the threads of his story. The next thing was the Storyteller's tall, stalwart frame with broad shoulders, and arms and legs corded with muscle. The man's face was oval shaped for lack of better description with two lines that etched themselves between his eyebrows when he crinkled them in concentration.
Despite his intimidating height and muscle when Till began his story telling he seemed to transform before your very eyes! He went from himself to an old crone, to a nubile girl, to a sickly babe and all his characters in between. When Till was not telling stories he was what the Killjoys called a gentle giant, quietly helping around the camp or minding the children, never having to raise his voice towards them. Children and adults alike fell sway to his low pleasant voice as they gazed up into those greenish blue bedroom eyes of his.
To the delight of one of the many Killjoy camps Till the Storyteller came wandering into their midst one random evening. It was one of the camp children who spotted him first and came back shrieking with joy at his arrival. When he reached the edge of the lake of tents that surrounded the multiple fires, he drew back his hood and pulled his goggles so that they hung around his neck.
A moment later he was greeted by a brown streaked with blonde haired girl. She gave him a warm smile before she offered him a jug of water and to wash his cloak for him. Till was also welcome to bathe, eat, and sleep till all adult Killjoys came back from raids or visiting other camps. He nodded and upon handing her his cloak noticed the stars on the back of her hands and wrists. Looking at her face he saw she had a cluster of black stars on her left cheekbone. The lady noticed how his sea glass green eyes studied her face and knew he had taken note of her tattoos. Renegade gave a shy smile and touched her fingertips to her cheek.
"My tattoos are something pretty in this barren place." She explained.
"They are something beautiful on a ravishing woman." Till murmured giving a naughty smile when she blushed and admonished
"Watch yourself Storyteller, pride goeth before the fall."
"Beautiful, well read, and no doubt a fierce fighter what more could a man ask for?" He teased following her as she led him to one of the many blue bathing tents. The little lady looked up at the tall man an amused smile on her face as she stated
"Bath and go to the fire nearby I'll be there with food for you." Till nodded bluish green eyes twinkling merrily as he ducked into the bathing tent. Once scrubbed fresh and cleaning off his goggles he went out to the fire. Just as she said Renegade was waiting for him. Again she smiled warmly at him before she held out a can of corn that had been scrounged up.
"Danke." Till thanked as he tipped the can back and ate. When he finished Renegade offered him a place to rest while he waited. He accepted and Renegade led him to her tent, this being custom to offer one's own tent as a place to rest. There were not enough resources to have empty tents just lying around so it was seen as unusual not to have a bunkmate.
Once settled Renegade left him to keep an eye on the fire and for the Killjoys. Renegade shared her tent as Till noted with the two cots. But the space was only shelter as was clear from the lack of decorations. It was not long after that Till fell asleep thankful for the cot which was much better than the ground. He was awoken by Renegade's soft voice and a gentle shake, telling him that most all of the Killjoys had returned and were now waiting for him.
"My cloak?" He questioned following her out and stretching up onto his tip toes, stretching his whole body before he continued towards the fire.
"Still drying, it will be done within the night though." She answered as she settled in an empty chair that completed the circle of them around the fire. Till did not have one and had not expected it for he needed to be up and moving to fully portray his story.
Both adults and children alike were silent, Till's very presence demanding it and they waited eagerly for his great baritone voice to rumble out his magical tales. The man gazed upon his audience, capturing each and every person's eyes as he began.
"Ein kleiner mensch stirbt nur zum Schein
A small human only pretends to die
Wollte ganz alleine sein
It wanted to be completely alone
Das kleine Herz stand still für Stünden
The small heart stood still for hours
So hat man es für tot befunden
So they decided it was dead
Es wird verscharrt in nassen Sand
It is being buried in wet sand
mit einer Spieluhr in der Hand
with a music box in its hand…
The womenfolk wept and wailed and tore at their breasts in sorrow. The menfolk with their somber faces carried the small coffin to the diminutive open grave to which they gently lowered the child into.
The Killjoys watched mesmerized as Till collapsed to his knees, sobbing and asking
"Why? Why my only child!" The man's voice was so full of anguish many cringed and without thought reached out to the man to comfort him
The mother was beside herself with grief, her breasts crying blood from where her nails had bit into the tender flesh. It was too soon that the mourning family slowly dragged themselves away, leaving the diggers to bury the child in her shallow grave.
Not long after night was pulled across the sky like a blanket as darkness melted down onto the ground, making trees and grass turn blue from the way the moonlight struck. As most slumbered a man walked through the graveyard wanting to quickly get home. But his mind was pulled from these thoughts to the haunting melody that seemed to come from the very night itself. He stood stock still, head tilted to the right as if he were a dog listening for his Master's call. And as obedient as any dog he followed the music's call to the freshly buried child. The man paid no thought to this and feverishly began to dig with his hands wanting that lovely source of music. It was not long before he unearthed the dead child and the music. The golden music box the dead child held took his breath away. Greed welled up in the man and he thought only of the money that the golden music box would bring him, as he pried the precious thing from her stiff, cold fingers. The savage had not even the respect to cover the child as he hurried towards his shack of a home.
He set the golden box on the shelf above his bed and even it was dimmed by the squalid surroundings. The floor was made of dirt, the straw bed was musty and smeared with dirt, and the steel walls gave no comfort. This did not matter to John of course who crawled into bed muttering about the damned cold and how much money the music box would fetch.
Morning came and still the eerie music played a faint strain in comparison to the noises of nature all around. This at first surprised John but after a moment he convinced himself the music would wind down. Not bothering to change his grimy clothing John rubbed his eyes and yawned showing off his tobacco stained teeth, a disgusting copy of the precious thing above his bed. He strolled out of his room and into town shaking his head when he still heard the music.
"Do you hear that?" John asked stopping a passing farmer who was leading two oxen to market. The farmer stopped, a look of question on his face, as he strained his ears to hear whatever it was. After a moment the farmer shrugged and shook his head
"Some ale may be what you need my friend." The farmer teased as he tugged his oxen into motion. John gave a shaky exhale and followed the farmer to where he tied his oxen up and went with him to the alehouse.
The afternoon passed into late night and the tavern was regaled with John's defilement of the child's grave and how the damned golden music box would not be quiet. At this part of the story John yanked at his hair and beat at his temples screaming at the music to stop! Before anyone could say a word he raced out of the tavern and to his home where he snatched up the music box. Without stopping for breath John took off back to the graveyard and when he came upon the dead child he crammed the thing into her hand, sobbing for her to stop the music.
"You depraved man you will suffer for your greed and disrespect of the dead." A girl's voice hissed and John sobbed harder in terror and understanding as he collapsed before the grave.
As Till's great baritone voice rumbled to a close the Killjoys gazed at him, spellbound. The man bowed at the waist, plucked his cloak from its place hung by the fire and set off. As he walked away from the firelight even his cloud white cloak faded into the pitch black night as adults and children watched him leave, grateful he had gifted them with his tales.