And so I, your Father, shall present to the champion of the Fallen One a choice from amongst my children, one of whom he will choose to stand in my stead and face him. Though mean of birth, through their strength they will persevere and bring about the first trial.
All shall I judge, the greatest of kings and the mightiest of warriors, and finding them wanting, shall pass them by. To the least of you shall I send the angel Jakob, whom I have charged with commanding the legions of heaven, and he shall imbue the chosen with great knowledge of war and raise him from the lowliest of ranks to command the armies of the righteous.
The Book of Oracles, Chapter 2, Verses 6-7
Prologue :
He was hunched over, his collar turned up against the driving rain, pushing through the weather and the dark night towards this destination. The street he was on was narrow, the buildings looming over him on each side, dark with windows shuttered against the storm. There were few other people sharing the road with him, although the sounds of a city at night time could be heard in the distance. The rumble of traffic, bells from the trolley cars, and the dull throb that always accompanied a mass of humanity, drifted through the dark, night air reminding him that no matter how many people he could see, he was only one of millions..
He was a tall man, thin probably although his heavy jacket did much to hide that. He pulled his hat down further hoping to keep the rain from his face, although he knew it was futile. It wasn't far to his destination, and he was hoping to get there before he was soaked through. Probably that was already an impossibility.
A hundred paces ahead of him the street emptied into a broad congested thoroughfare. Some square cars, a trolley, and an occasional horse drawn cart were still out on the street despite it being dark and damp. In a city of this size It was never truly quiet. He looked to his left and seeing bright light pouring through broad windows, he turned that way he made for the doors, pushing them open and diving into the war, bright interior of the bar.
It was tough, grimy, and filled with people who matched that description, but in the yellow glow of newly installed electric lights it had a type of charm about it, a homeliness, and he knew it was a place that would appreciate what he had to offer. Removing his hat, he shook the rain from it and looked for a peg. Finding a long row of them to his right he added his hat and coat to the many already hanging there and looked around the room.
He was in fact a thin man, narrow in the face and in the body. He appeared to be of middle age, developing wrinkles on his face, and perhaps the first touches of gray in his light hair, but his eyes could be mistaken for that of a much older man. They were dark, deeply set in his face, and seemed to flick around quickly taking in everything. Bringing up a thin, long fingered hand he brushed damp, tawny hair back from his eyes, Trying to find the bartender. Spotting an obvious suspect, he moved across the room with a deliberate stride , drawing up next to the bar and attracting the attention of the chubby man talking happily to a customer. Seeing the new arrival, the balding barkeep excused himself from his conversation and turned to talk to the newcomer.
"How can I help you buddy?" he said brightly, his voice high pitched, both his hands on the bar top in a friendly way.
'I am a Teller." The thin man responded as if that was all he needed to say.
The bartender squinted slightly looking more closely. "There hasn't been one of those around here in years," he replied. "I can't imagine you're the first."
The corner of the thin man's mouth flicked slightly in annoyance. "It is irrelevant what you imagined, and I doubt you can imagine much, but I am a Teller." There was a coolness in his voice, and assurance, something the bartender couldn't simply push aside.
"Why the hell are you here then?", he asked , his voice quieting somewhat. "If you are a Teller, I can't see why you'd want to be in this dump."
The Teller shrugged his thin shoulders, "I am where I need to be," he said, and then looking around, he pointed to the far side of the room. "I will speak from there." He pointed to a small stage up against the back wall. "I expect to be fed and I expect there to be a drink in my hand for as long as I spend here. Find me a comfortable chair."
The bartender hesitated for a moment, not sure whether to take this seriously, but seeing the look in the in man's light eyes it was his turn to shrug And he hustled away looking for a chair.
The Teller walked across the room to the low stage. The building was an older one and whike electricity had arrived, it had not been fitted with steam Heating came from several large cast iron stoves scattered around the room. One was set next to the stage, which pleased the Teller has it meant that he would dry off faster and stay warm as the evening grew colder. The story he was going to tell was a long one and he was sure he would be here till well after midnight. He might as well be comfortable during that time.
There weren't that many people in the pub, perhaps a dozen in a room large enough to handle four times that many, but it didn't matter. The Teller understood what would happen. News of his story would spread and before the evening was out the room would be crowded. Two maybe three score people jammed into the room sipping drinks in silence as the tale unfolded about them.
There had once been many Tellers. The skill had not been common, but it had been common enough and they had been found in all corners of the map, spinning their stories in the deep, quiet way that drew the listener in, made the tale real in their minds. There were far fewer now., gone entirely in some areas of the Father's world, and the reason why was clear, even if many tried to dismiss it. There were as many as ever, some maintained, only modern, for a modern age.
But what others thought was irrelevant to this Teller. He was one of the few true speakers of the history left, nearly all the others, Tellers in name only having never understood where the power to enthrall a crowd so completely truly came from. He had an advantage of course, having been at it a long while, but still the difference between a Teller and a modern fraud was so clear, only willful desire to be ignorant explained those who could not see it.
The barkeep bustled up, red faced and sweating slightly, dragging a heavy, padded wooden chair to the stage. A younger man with a bad complexion and an apron was just behind him carrying a small table. For his meal a and drinks, the Teller thought, eyeing the table. And a nice touch. Why the boy carried the small table while the portly bartender hauled the chair was a bad sign, and looking closer at the boy, the Teller saw the look. Disbelief and arrogance. The boy thought, no, he knew, Tellers were myths, and he carried that disbelief in his posture.
The Teller reached down from the stage, lifting the chair easily and positioning it near the middle od the dias. The boy stepped up, pushing the small table out in front of him, but receiving no assistance from the thin man.
"Put it to there to the right of the chair," the Teller directed in a cold tone, turning away from the youth.
The lad rolled his eyes dramatically. "Father?" It was a whining request for the barkeep to overrule the demand, but the heavy man shook his head forcefully .
"Do as the Teller requests, lad"
The Teller hadn't really considered it a request, but it was good to hear the belief in the bartender's voice. He had been sceptical at first, but seemed to believe his guest was who he claimed to be now. The boy gave a petulant sigh, and stepping up, dropped the table next to the chair before stomping off in a huff.
By now the people gathered had begun to take notice. The Teller straightened his back, and swept his gaze across them. First impressions were important, he knew, and the Teller knew how to make a first impression. The bartender was back, a plate with fried potatoes and a sandwich in one hand, a large mug of beer in the other. Placing the food on the table and handing the drink to his performer, he looked at his guest questioningly.
"Should I introduce you?"
The thin man nodded, and took a sip of his drink.
The heavy man continued to look up at the Teller, clearly unsure what to do.
"My name is Michael, and I will be telling the tale of the Time of Trials."
The bartender's eyes widened slightly. "The Time of Trials? That will take days."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "You close for two days on the tenday, do you not?"
The bartender nodded. "Of course, Teller. I am not a pious man, but I try to keep the sabbath."
Michael smiled. "And today is the 12th from spring, correct?"
Again the rotund man nodded.
"Then unless you have plans to take vacation, we have six days." The barkeep looked unsure, but the Michael patted him warmly on a chubby shoulder. "I promise you will have more business this ten-day than you have ever had, goodman. And I will make sure to finish my tale each night before 2 past."
The barkeep nodded before whispering. "And, forgive for asking, but you are actually a Teller, not one of those young phoneys?"
The thin man laughed. "My oath on it, goodman."
The oath and the promise of business brought a broad smile to the bartender's face and he turned to the curious faces gathered in the room.
"My friends," he began, waving his hands as if they were not already paying attention. "We have the great honor to have a Teller with us tonight." This brought a murmur of surprise, and more than a few disbelieving catcalls.
"And you're giving away free beer, Tom."
This comment came from the back and garnered a good amount of friendly laughter, but Tom shook his head and pushed on.
"I am assured he is what he says he is, and Michael will be telling us the tale of the Time of Trials." This caused even more muttering amongst those gathered as this story was an epic that would last days and was almost never performed, by ancient or modern Tellers. "So find yourself a comfortable chair, get Molly or Kate to bring you a beer, and let's hear what Michael has to say."
Turning back to the thin Teller, Tom smiled and stepped from the stage, leaving every eye to focus on the stranger. Tom's introduction hadn't been a professional job, but it had been enthusiastic,, and no more could be asked. Michael stepped forward and smiled slightly.
"It is an honor to be with you, good people, " he began, his voice dropping slightly in pitch as he moved into the voice. "I see you have not met a Teller before, perhaps even doubt they exist in a world of steam and electricity." At this his face softened and sadness tinted his eyes. "That we are few is true enough, and a tragedy, for we are needed more now than ever, but those of us that remain will have to are do."
Then, raising his blue eyes and sweeping them across the room, he smiled. "But we are not here to mourn a death that has yet to occur. We are here to praise the Father through the telling of tales, the remembering g of history so that we may learn what He teaches us through it, and with wisdom, not repeat the same mistakes."
"We can make new mistakes of our own," chipped in an older man sitting near the front holding small glass of clear spirits, and drawing a chuckle from the bar.
Michael smiled and nodded to the old timer. "We can indeed, goodman. And when we do, future Teller's will speak of those mistakes, trying in turn to teach from our struggles." Closing his eyes, the Teller breathed in deeply through his nose, focusing his mind and looking for the spark he knew he would find there. When he spoke, it was with the voice, slow, deep and rhythmic. "Join me now in silence as we accept our lot as children to the Father, as we hear His words through my voice, as we see Him in the past, and know He guides our futures only when we listen."
Everyone knew a Teller of the old ways invoked the Father, that he believed his words were those of God spoken through the Teller's lips to teach His children, but in a modern world hearing it spoken made many there nervous. Still, nearly all made the sign of flame, four fingers touching first their left breast, then their forehead, then their lips. Most probably didn't know the meaning, but they felt the significance.
And so the Teller began, his low, powerful voice seeping into those gathered, the power or the ritual holding them all as the story unfolded. One by one, more people slipped silently into the dirty bar in a backstreet of a run down neighborhood, drawn by something they couldn't describe to listen to the first night of the telling.