The Village of the Konnes

Rashellen sat amidst a crowd of chattering villagers. The evening stage was set and the bard was late to his own recital. What was Rashellen even doing here? Foolish waste of time.

She knew, however, that she needed to rest. Kest-Aatey was a deserted country. A few inhabited villages and towns still remained. Unfortunately for travelers, they were situated far away from one another. She had walked for two days before she reached this settlement -- the Village of the Konnes. Altogether, she had been moving, one and off, for two months now.

Even as she tried to rest, her heart beat violently. Fleshcombing Keep was a eleven-day walk away to the south. This was the closest she had ever been to the hold of her brother's killer.

"I've come far," she pondered to herself. For one moment, the thought made her feel content. The very next moment, she recalled the matter of fighting. The killer was a Consecrated Knight of the Order of the Fleshcomb. Rashellen had slain men and women in combat but never monsters. She had only caught a glimpse of the Fleshcombing Knight when she was little, the afternoon her brother was slaughtered, but the knight did not look human. Well, at least, that's how she remembered him.

Rashellen tried to get up but a little girl held on to her greaves, not letting her leave.

"Stay!" the child said. "The teller is fabulous!"

"I'm sure our guest is tired, Korr," said the girl's mother. "Besides, who knows when the teller will show up?"

Rashellen nodded to the mother in gratitude. Her plan was to crash into any nearby haystack and sleep until the duckons woke her up the next morning. But just then, before she could scoot off, there was a jingling sound. The curtains parted.

"Luck of Ymir," she cursed. The mother gave her a look. "Ah, sorry."

The Konnes tried not to curse in general -- they were a nice bunch. But they specially, and strictly, avoided using slangs and profanities that alluded to the Old World. For now, Rashellen would get away with just a stare because Korr was mesmerized, the whole of her attention, like strings on a marionette, at the hands of the bard. He sang, he joked, he danced. In addition to the whole act, he played a curious-looking four-stringed instrument. Rashellen had never seen or listened to such a wonderful thing. So, she too was interested.

Suddenly, an old man in the front row yelled, "This is cute but when will ya tell stories? Make my dead heart feel something, won't ya?"

The crowd laughed.

The bard took off his loony hat and sat down, legs crossed, on the stage. Planks creaked beneath him. Just as his lips parted, the crowd went silent. The man smiled. This was what he lived for, Rashellen could tell. So, he began to tell stories old and new, real and untrue, heartfelt and heartbreaking. One particular story, even though she despised the genre, stuck with Rashellen.

***

Nameless fiend held a glassy knife to his chest. "I love you," he announced, drawing a thin streak of cold, purple blood.

Nameless dragonborn cast a short and sweet spell. She whispered, "Unt kell Ino."

Glass became a bitter-smelling liquid. Golden povidone poured down and mixed with grotesque purple to create a dusk-horizon screen.

"Why be Heartless when I can adore you as Heartful?" she said.

"I am tradition-bound," he said. "What kind of a fiend doesn't mutilate himself for true love's sake?"

"But... by doing so, you would sever from yourself the ability to feel love."

"Gladly. What else could ever prove my feelings for you?"

"You can prove that by just loving me, you blunt-edge!"

Nameless fiend struggled to comprehend nameless dragonborn's notions. He still clutched onto the bladeless handle of a knife he had intended to use on himself. That intention had long been dulled. So, he dropped the handle. It fell with a clang next to him.

He took the dragonborn's hands in his. "What am I now?" he asked.

"You are my love," nameless dragonborn professed. "Bearer of the last of good heart in Shest-Khosh."

***

It was late. Korr and her mother had already returned to their hut. Now that the hosts were gone, Rashellen felt freer to be herself.

"What's providon anyway?" Rashellen heckled as the bard was starting another tale. The crowd murmured.

"Povidone, you mean?" the bard irritably replied.

"Sure, man. Is it another thing you made up?"

"Sure didn't, madam ... Wait, you guys don't have povidone?"

"I... will answer once you explain to us what on haven this providon thing is."

"Tell me something." The bard anchored his elbows on his thighs and leaned his faced onto clasped hands. "Do people die easily from petty wounds around these parts?"

"Kind of?"

"Ha! So if only you had some povidone to dress your injuries, then--"

"It's just a disinfectant then?" someone in the backrow yelled.

"Wait, it's also a--" the bard stuttered.

"We just pour some rum on it, man," said Rashellen. The crowd erupted in laughter. Their hearty voices echoed through the night.

Rashellen had witnessed many bards leave the stage in disdain or shame after heckles like that but this guy was something else.

"Hey, what if I tell you a story where this renowned swordsman died young due to a continued disregard of his healer's counsel to use proper disinfectants?" said he.

Rashellen booed. Every row followed.

"It involves dragons, a lightning-wielding wolfdog and a twist at the tail not even the goddess of destiny could foresee."

"Let's go!" somebody in the backrow shouted. The crowd erupted once again, laughing and cheering. Moments like these were precious. Some in the crowd would remember this night till their last breath. It seemed that both Rashellen and the Swejeish man understood this.

So, the bard waited a few moments. Then, at the right time, he parted his lips to speak. Silence fell upon the rows like fog.

"Once upon a time, a healer by the name of Shai-Kahon concocted the first disinfectant, using golden dew that ringed and misted, like clouds, the fabled mountainpeaks of Kest-Elin," he began.

***