Maxwell entered the shelter of the tavern. His hood had long ago soaked through because of the rather gloomy weather, and once through the doorway he pried it off with a sigh of relief. Brushing away the few silver locks that had wetly clung to his face he made his way through a heavy crowd to where the inn keeper should be.

With a crowd like this he'd be lucky to find lodgings, especially this late in the evening. However, as he pushed his way past a few more people a loud bellow reached his ears. It was an old, yet sturdy looking bard. A popular one from the looks of it. He had put together a table or two as a make-shift stage and stood atop them, for he was too short for the crowd to see otherwise. He had a lyre in his arm, a sign of his trade. He also had the crowd's devout attention, another sign of his trade.

Maxwell recognized from his bellows the tale the bard would sing, and he smiled in memory. For he had heard the story before…no, he had lived it. And while lodgings sounded like a fine idea, there were other inns and other towns that he could easily waystep to. Besides, reminiscing over this tale told by an excellent bard seemed to be a much more amiable idea at the moment.

He made his way to the back of the room, where a table lay abandoned by more eager listeners. Maxwell had no reason to see the bard, the gestures and acting was always of disinterest to him. Instead he enjoyed the tale, the journey, and certainly the song. Besides, the bard's voice carried well. So Maxwell sat back and kicked his feet up on an opposite chair, and because he was sure everyone's attention was purely on the bard he made a brief gesture with his hand and settled comfortably back in his chair, warm and dry as though the weather never touched him. Maxwell closed his eyes as the bard finished his gathering technique and began his tale.

"There are gods my friends. Some powerful and magnificent, others weak and deceitful. Oh! Of course there are many that walk the course in-between! But the point is, there are gods."

The old mans eyes flashed through the crowd, daring anyone to dispute this fact. When no objection came a smile came across his face as he gave his lyre a gentle strum.

"These gods, they have walked the earth. They have touched the very grounds we stand on. Indeed! The earliest gods created," the bards hand gestured all around him and the crowd looked appropriately humbled.

"Those gods, they touched mankind too. Many were obsessed with our race. Whether for the good or for the bad, they meddled," he said in such a deep and ominous voice that hushed any lingering murmurs in the crowd. If there was doubt of his hold of their attention, it had now fluttered away.

"Some would fall in love, have children, and make a life here on the mortal realm. Some would rape and pillage, causing war and havoc. Others would bestow gifts, magic, and power, while gathering followers for their cause. While others still, would torture and pervert our very nature, our very souls.

"Listen closely all who gather! For I am about to tell the tale of the Kingdoms Ooüne and Sank, who housed the gods most precious gifts to mankind. Who still house those gifts, to this very day. Though the gods have long abandoned us, their presence still lingers. The demi-gods may have been stricken, the gatherings may have been forbidden, but the mages still cast, warlocks still conjure, and the shamans still have their visions.

"I speak of gods!

"I speak of war!

"I speak of faltering love, impossible magiks, and daring feats!

"I speak of the fountains of Tristana. And I speak of the gardens of El Lísma-nan."