Okay! A random one-shot fanfic I did. It doesn't seeeeeeeem like Tortall, but it is. Honest.
'On this cold, winter's night,' began the storyteller. He was a haggard looking old man, but in his eyes sparked insane energy. They were an electric green, jumping out at even the most casual onlooker. He was dressed in rags, as were his helpers: a mage and a musician. Together, they roamed around the country side, performing for whoever asked. On this one occasion, he had been hired by a country lord to perform at his castle in the last night of Midwinter for his youthful son and his friends.
'I shall tell you a story of one whose deeds were daring and rash; whose courage was invincible, despite his night-clad footprints,' the storyteller continued. The musician had stuck up a deep, soothing chord on her harp; the mage next to her was creating an image of the one the storyteller talked of on a clear patch of white-washed stone.
'He was of small stature; lithe as a snake with eyes to match. The nose he had broken, and the lines which creased his face were overhung by matted grey hair; and yet, he was still the nimblest man in all the land!' The storyteller was using extravagant gestures and pitch tones; the audience found themselves enthralled. 'And such skilled he was, that he could talk his way out of any situation; and leaving the hangman with a strange feeling that he just might have been had.
'Now, this man who walked in shadows and in fog went by the alias of Dasharti. He heard that a god had dropped something most precious from the Divine Realms themselves: that most curious object, that snake-scale which grants eternal life!' The storyteller paused, after that crescendo. The tension in the room was palpable, every member of the audience hanging onto his words.
'But as it fell, and just before it hit the earth – it was snatched up in the talons of a great dragon! This dragon looked at it with his red eyes; and he decided that no mortal must ever have this sacred pleasure! And so saying, he took it back to his cave.' The storyteller paused for effect, and swirled his coat around dramatically. 'And there, he was struck by a curse, a curse that caused him to forsake all deep sleeps, and drift off only into a light daze: the curse of paranoia.'
The storyteller's eyes were a-bright with feverous excitement, and the music had taken on a more dramatic, darker tone.
'Dasharti, our master thief, coveted this grand prize greatly. And so he set off, creeping swiftly through back alleys and swinging through the tree tops like a monkey, skirting the deserts like moss skirts the sunlight, and eating up the leagues in front of him with agility, endurance, and speed,' he said, his voice containing an almost reverentic tone.
'And so: when he came at last to the great dragon's lair, after crossing deep snowdrifts without leaving a track, he was determined to see this all the way through. He had gathered information from various personages on the way, and had devised a cunning plan.' The storyteller paused and surveyed the room; all the rich young folks, in all their finery and jewels, had their eyes locked onto the image his mage was projecting. He started to move amongst the crowd, lowering his voice to a whisper as he did so.
'He lay in wait below the mouth of the cave, and – taking a stone in his nimble fingers, he threw it down the mountain. The dragon, ever sensitive, let out a roar that made the very cliffs tremble. He shot out of the cave and searched desperately for the unknown thief.'
He started to make his way to the door, motioning for the musician and mage to follow, while keeping their spell going.
'But Dasharti had long managed to sneak past the dragon. Holding aloft the sacred scale! He gained, at last, eternal life.' And on that parting sentence, the storyteller left the hall. The audience looked around – confused, and noticed that all their jewels had disappeared. A sneaking suspicion grew on them that they'd been had.