Master of Words, Chapter 1: Part 1.

"Jerime! Jerime!" came a female voice from the next room. Jerime got up off his chair, setting down his clay. He pushed in the chair, and turned to the door to the next room.

Selena, his older sister, was standing, wrapping loafs of bread. "Before we leave, Jerime, take these loaves to Ker's house. I'm sure he'll want them for his summer story," she said, tossing him two breads wrapped in thin cloth.

Jerime deftly caught the loaves, and turned to leave. As he stepped across the threshold, he muttered under his breath, "Can't anyone finsish their own job?"

Selena's voice came agiain, saying now, "I can hear you."

Jerime sprinted away as a wooden spoon came flying at him. After about a minute, he returned to a fast walking pace, going up the hill. Ker, the old storyteller, lived up on the mountainside. He was something of a hermit, and the people of the village thought of him as their ward, sending a spare coat here, a pair of boots there, or just food. Ker, though, gave a lot of these things to the children and those that were poorer than he. He was the epitome of charity in the valley, and women entrusted him to entertain their children on the long summer nights.

Those summer nights were something of a legend among the valley. Every week, Ker would come out to an amazing amphiteater, created naturally from a collapsed pit. Some said, that when Ker had first come to the Nucar Valley, he had began telling the stories alone in the pit. He had been old even then, and slowly, people noticed the crazy newcomer's talent with words.

It was the children first. Jerime's teacher, Mathame Frallt, had been one of these children.

"The man came out in the light of the setting sun. This same light reflected from the Sutar below, lighting him from behind. Only a few children were there, come to watch this man," she'd said one day, after seeing him make one of his rare rounds into the village, "But our goal of teasing him was suddenly made ineffective. At the forefront of our minds was this story. He controlled the words so deftly, and he looked so grand, that none could make fun of him. At the end, we were stunned by his magnificence. He seemed to change, though, and smiled at us. From the pocket of his robe, he'd pulled some bread, and the next ten minutes saw us fed and sent safely home."

Just then, Jerime arrived. The house of Ker was small, but in its own way as daunting as a bastion of the Empress herself. With a deep breath, Jerime steeled himself to enter. He approached the path, making his slow but sure way to his front door. He stopped before the door, and raised his hand to knock politely. As his hand came down, the door swung open with the sound of swift movement. Jerime's hand, to large and going to fast to stop, continued on. But he needn't have worried. A hand had caught his fist. This hand was wrinkled with the signs of a man who had aged well. Jerime looked up, at last, into the face of this mysterious master of words.