“Whoa.” A store lurked here in the dark remains of the old city buried beneath the feet of all those people who walked under the sun. A polished wooden counter gleamed in the light of several lanterns hung from hooks attached to the ancient stone walls between glass-topped display cases. Everything stood neatly at attention. Not a speck of dust or a thread of cobweb to be seen. I so desperately needed to hire whoever was in charge here to clean my place. On second thought, they needed to stay far, far away from my rooms. That person would mess up my system.

Speaking of the neat-freak himself, a short, round gentleman nattily dressed in crimson strode into the room from another passage. “Welcome to Nixan’s Emporium. We have the finest goods under Lutrethan. We have—.”

“You have the only goods under Lutrethan, Nixan.” Pud might be older than I originally thought. He certainly didn’t talk like a ten year old.

“Pud! It’s good to see you.” Nixan bear-hugged the boy, his head barely higher than Pud’s, Pud’s face mashed into Nixan’s well-padded shoulder. If the expression on the boy’s face was anything to go by, Nixan’s neatness didn’t extend to his personal hygiene. “So, tell me, who did you bring to me?”

Pud ducked out of Nixan’s reach and took up a neutral position near the door. “Jaydia Vathne. She’s looking for some information.”

“Information? Really?” Nixan hoisted himself up onto a tall stool behind the counter and steepled his fat fingers across his chest. “What can I do for you, Miss Vathne?”

Finally. Someone who didn’t call me ma’am. “Well, Pud here tells me that you are a vendor of unusual weapons. The more unusual the better. Is that true?”

“Yes, my dear, it is. I have the widest selection in Lutrethen. Indeed in all of western Dalkran. And if I don’t carry what you need, I have the contacts to find someone who does. Now are you interested in short blades, long blades, bows, polearms, or something even more exotic?” Nixan’s forehead grew shiny while he spoke, his excitement clearly affecting him on a physical level.

“Pud?”

“Yes?” The boy turned from his examination of a curved dagger on a bed of velvet.

“Leave us for a moment. I need a word alone with Mr. Nixan.”

After the curtain fell back into place, I walked right up to Nixan and put my left hand in the center of his chest while pulling the silver circle pendant from beneath my shirt.

“I’m sorry I have to do this but I have to make sure you tell me everything you know.” I dangled the circle in front of his startled brown eyes. Slivers of reflected light danced in his eyes. I chanted a quick invocation to Kellean and as his will settled over Nixan, Nixan’s gaze grew soft and his eyelids drooped. My touch of real magic combined with the priestly magic gave my compulsions an extra punch. Just one of the reasons I had a reputation for effectiveness in my pursuit of enemies of the faith. The taint in my blood would have me tied to a stake dancing in a very hot bonfire faster than I could pull out my circle if it was discovered by the priests in the church.

I shrugged away those thoughts. I had long ago made my peace with it. It wasn’t like I was a priest; I’m a Hunter of Kellean. My faith is pure and if Kellean didn’t want my skills, he was perfectly capable of getting rid of me.

I pulled a stained cloth bundle out and unwrapped it. I held the six-pointed throwing star in front of Nixan’s gaze. Dried blood dulled its points; blood of High Priest Doundel.

        

Pud led the way through the city, showing me so much more of Lutrethen than I had seen in the two days since I arrived. I followed him down avenues and up alleys. We ducked through narrow doorways barely big enough to deserve the name. Finally we ended in a tiny close with a grungy tavern at the head of it. The sagging door dragged across broken and missing cobbles as we entered the low-ceilinged, smoky room. If the outside was grungy, the inside was so much worse. As a devoted worshipper of Kellean, taverns of all walks were my temples but this one made my skin crawl instead of welcoming me home.

“Street Rat. Why you here?” The thick-accented voice of the emaciated bartender boomed across the almost empty room. Dull light gleamed off of his shaved head, mostly likely shaved to keep the lice away. Yellowed teeth like gravestones filled his wide mouth. With one finger, nail blackened by grime, he pointed at me. “Who that?”

Pud answered. “A client.” To me, “Wait here,” and he strode to the bar, for all the world as if he owned the place.

While they talked quietly behind the bar, I surveyed the establishment. Establishment was entirely too fancy a word for the greasy-walled, blackened-beamed ceilinged, dirt-packed floored room I stood in. No windows to let in sunlight or fresh air but that wasn’t really surprising. A single fireplace belched smoke into the room. A lone gentleman huddled near it’s warmth coughed long and phlegmy every few seconds. When a large black beetle crawled across the toe of my well-worn boot, I could wait no longer.

“Pud! We don’t have time for a social call.”

“Ma–, Lady. This way.” He led the way through the once white, now brown, curtain that blocked off an opening behind the bar.

Following him, I found the expected haphazard stacks of crates and barrels of supplies in the storage room and Pud disappearing behind a particularly wobbly stack against the far wall.

“Wait up.” When I tried to squeeze myself into the narrow space behind the crates, I discovered two things.

One, I had always thought of myself as a thin woman but there was no comparison to a ten-year-old boy. The hand crossbow that hung from my belt under my coat didn’t help matters any.

Two, the precariousness of the stack of crates was an illusion. If pushing through that space didn’t knock them down, nothing would.

“Pud, if you are leading me into a trap or plan on leaving me here stuck behind these crates . . .” I stumbled as the wall behind me suddenly opened up into a dark passage that snaked downward. I cursed when I barked my shin against something that clattered off into the inky darkness. “Uh, how ‘bout some light?”

“It’s that far.” Pud’s voice echoed strangely in the space I couldn’t see.

I put one gloved hand to the cool wall and moisture built up inside the leather while I slowly moved forward. Darkness and Jaydia do not mix. I fiddled with the silver pendant of a stylized goblet, given to me when I was dedicated to Kellean by High Priest Wynret at age twelve. A bit of faith and some words in Ullian and I could have light. Those words burned the tip of my tongue but pressure to keep my minor skills with magic secret kept my lips pressed together. I could deal with sweating palms and stumbling blind through an unfamiliar tunnel if it didn’t last more than another minute.

And that became my mantra. Just one more minute. Just one more minute. When I thought I couldn’t stand it any more, I turned a corner and a golden glow outlined another ragged curtain. This time the curtain hung in front of an irregular opening of an underground tunnel.

Pud swept the curtain aside and gestured to the interior. “Here we are.”

I rushed into the chamber, foregoing any caution in favor of escaping the clinging dark of the passage.

Like my writing? You can find a list of my stories here.

        

“Most Holy Kellean, bless my blades so that they may find their mark. Bless my eyes that I may see. Bless my ears that I may hear. I will find the one who defiled your holy place and he will pay.” I poured a small portion of ale onto the tip of a heavily carved crossbow bolt and into the fire. Licking my fingers clean, I stowed the ale away and stood.

“Time to get to work.” I slapped the naked flank of the bath boy in my bed.

He rolled over and pale blue eyes peered sleepily up from under dark brown curls. If duty didn’t press, those eyes would have me climbing back into the blankets.

“Ma’am?”

“Ma’am? That’s not what you called me last night.” The kiss I laid on him promised at all the things I wish I had the time to do with him and to him.

“Sorry.” He blushed. He actually blushed. When a woman can make a handsome man blush, life is good.

“Take your time getting up. The room is paid for. This is for you.” I placed a thick gold coin on the scratched side table, slung a long leather coat over my shoulder, and left the room.

On the street, hat pulled low to shade my eyes from the morning sun, I sauntered towards the market.

#

The meat-filled pastry was a little dry but who was I to complain? Here was but another opportunity to swallow some ale to wet my throat. Ahh!

Others had their eyes on the displays of goods for sale; I kept my eyes on the crowd. Patience and Kellean would bring what I needed to complete my mission.

There.

I slipped behind a booth and circled around through the shadows. I crept between a coppersmith’s booth and a leatherworker’s tent. Silent as a snake. Quick as a cat. When I was in position, I struck. Fast. A few seconds later, I had my prize deep in the shadows behind the leatherworker’s tent.

The child, no more than ten winters old, squirmed and fought. A brave child but small and no match for–.

“Hey!” I gripped the child’s collar and held him, or possibly her, at arm’s length while I inspected my hand. A circle of teeth marks marred the palm of my left hand. “That was hardly polite, sir.”

“I ain’t no sir. Let me go or I’ll scream.” The child narrowed eyes at me, clearly hoping to appear serious or threatening.

I held up a small silver coin between two fingers. Brown eyes fixed on it like iron to a lodestone. “Do that and we won’t come to an accord.”

The child looked at the coin for another long moment before giving a short nod. I let go of his ragged tunic and watched while he straightened his clothing in a manner befitting the finest gentlemen of society.

“Whatchya want, ma’am?”

“Ma’am?” I began to think maybe I looked older than my 23 years. “I’m no ma’am. Call me Jaydia and I’ll call you…?”

“Pud.” The boy–this child had to be male—hooked his thumbs in the bit of rope that served as his belt. “How can I help ye, Jaydia ma’am?”

I barely managed to restrain an eye roll as I matched his posture. “I’m in the market for some information, Sir Pud.”

“What kind of information?” Suspicion in his voice turned his tones into those of an older child.

“I need a merchant. One who deals in wares that these fair businessmen would never dirty their lily-white hands with.” My gesture encompassed the entire market. Pud’s eyes followed my gloved hands before coming back to my face.

“A merchant, eh? I know nothing of such people.” He hurried on when the coin disappeared into my palm. “But I can take you to someone who does.”

“We have an accord.” I tossed the coin and Pud caught it, making the coin disappear quicker than I had. “When we get to your source, there’s another one of them in it for you.”

A wide smile grew on his face, the first I’d seen since I made his acquaintance. “Thank ye, ma’am.”

I groaned. “And a third, if you never call me ma’am again.”

        

Rheken has been alone for a long time and just wants to get his father back. The truth about his father’s disappearance has eluded him for a year and finally, he will find out just why he is the only survivor of a once thriving city.

A new short story is up for sale on Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and Smashwords for 99 cents. Enjoy!

        

A new short story is up for 99 cents at Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and Smashwords.

After years fighting dragons with his trusty Remington M700 and sword, John St. George wants to retire but dragonslaying is in his blood. When danger comes to another damsel, John leaps into action, creaky knees and all.

I had a blast writing this story. John St. George is not a hero to be missed. I hope you enjoy it.

        

Her aunt gripped her small hand and yanked her along the stone corridors. Mysjenn’s smaller legs worked hard to keep up. So hard she was nearly running. The worn floor chilled her bare feet and keeping them moving meant less time on the floor freezing.

The corridors here were a maze to Mysjenn. Her aunt seemed to be taking corners at random. Up one set of stairs and down another, until Mysjenn was thoroughly lost. Tear tracks dried on her heart shaped face, her nose still dripped. She used the sleeve of her rough robe to wipe at it as she ran.

“Don’t do that. Respect your attire, girl.” Her aunt didn’t even turn her head. How did she see what Mysjenn did?

Mysjenn had arrived on the island a few hours ago. She had come by ship from her homeland of Corethe. It had been the first time she had ever been one. The hustle and bustle of sailors moving about the deck and up in the rigging like spiders, the ocean wind in her face, the bob of the waves as the ship cut through a swell made her fall in love with the sea.

Time spent on the ship helped dull the memories of her parents and what had happened to them. The wild men had attacked their farm. The bandit leader with the compass rose on his forehead above his colorless eyes and sharp featured face haunted her dreams.

Her aunt pulled her into a room and stopped. Mysjenn tripped as she ran into her and would have fallen if not for her aunt jerking her arm to keep her on her feet. Mysjenn bit back a whimper.

“Soren. Prepare her.” Her aunt thrust her forward and without a backwards glance, left the room.

A hunched man, skin pasty white except for the patch of honey brown spreading across his forehead and down his left cheek to the top of his pale blue tunic that matched his eyes, approached. His mouth stretched into a smile that gave Mysjenn the shivers and she backed away until she ran against the closed door.

“I won’t harm you. The Sea Priestess wants you prepared for a special ceremony and I am the man for that duty. All of us here must do as the Sea Priestess requests or the god will strike you down. You too. So you better do as she says.” Throughout this speech, he kept coming closer until he grabbed her tightly by her upper arm as he finished. “You want to please the god, don’t you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He dragged her across the room to a half cask filled with water that dominated one corner of this large cluttered room. He stripped her of her robe and left her standing naked in the light of the torches around the perimeter of the room. He walked around her, examining every inch of her. She turned and tried to run away from the invisible worms that crawled in her belly at the hungry of this strange man. Soren laughed and caught her easily.

“You aren’t getting away that easily, little bird. The door be locked and anyone in this temple who sees you will just bring you back.” He lifted her into his arms and gave her a one-sided embrace before he dumped her into the cask.

She came up sputtering out a mouthful of salty water. “It’s cold! And it tastes funny.” She shivered and sniffled back snot as her nose began dripping once more.

“It’s sea water and you’ll come to love it.” One large hand descended on her head and pushed her under and held her there.

Her lungs burned and she saw stars floating through the water. A black cloud closed in, narrowing her vision to a small spot right in front of her nose when she was finally allowed to the surface again.

A hard wooden bristled brush was slapped into her limp hands, fingers reflexively closed around it. She stared at Soren, dazed, confused.

“Scrub yourself. And be thorough. Unless you want me to do it for you?”

She grabbed the brush, large in her small hands and awkwardly began scrubbing. Worried he would not approve of the job she did and take the brush from her, she scrubbed until her skin was pink and scraped raw. New tears came to her eyes from the pain but Soren never even looked at her. He busied himself with a tray near a stool. From where she sat in the water she could see shiny silver tools arranged neatly. Small jars and other arcane containers were shuffled around on a nearby shelf. All set within reach of a small battered stool.

After she had finished scrubbing every part of her body including her hair, scrubbed with ragged fingernails that made her scalp sting. She waited shivering in the water for Soren to acknowledge her.

Note: As I didn’t want to turn my attention away from my current project, I am posting the opening scene from my NaNoWriMo novel last year.

        

                This time the pay was more than enough. Too much almost. Caid Caellan doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and if a client wants to pay generously for a little theivery, who am I to complain?

                My rooms were in the Traders Corner. Traders kept hours that were compatible with mine. They slept at night and left me free to wander about without anyone sticking their nose in. During the day, they were too busy with their businesses to bother me in bed. It was a good arrangement.

                I strutted along a deserted street towards bed. The meet with the client for the exchange was tomorrow night. I thought longingly of the Red Light district but I had to guard this all-important box and until I had my payment I couldn’t afford what I wanted from the ladies there.

                A faint scrape of a boot against the cobbles was all the warning I had before I was jumped. It doesn’t take much to surprise me and that let me know that either these gents were professionals or had help. The magic kind of help. And that let me know that this wasn’t your usual run-of-the-mill mugging. One long knife was in my hand faster than thought and a bright flash of steel flew from my other and burrowed itself in the throat of one of my assailants.

                One less dance partner for the party.

                Three scruffy men in thick leather jerkins formed a triangle with me in the center. Each of them had a sharp weapon in their hands and were ready to use them. Clearly not a capture the merc mission.

                I waggled my fingers at the one with the blond bedhead. “Let’s dance.” I drew a second knife and held it with the blade along my bracered forearm. The familiar crooked smile stretched across my face. I loved this part. Me against them. Proving who is better. The ultimate prize for the winner. Life.

                For the space of several breaths, grunts, clashing metal, and the slap of flesh against flesh filled the air. Another gent went down and unless he could survive a hands length of steel punched through the gut, he wasn’t getting up again.

                “Is that the best you can do, boys? I haven’t even broke a sweat yet.”

                “Perhaps I can fix that.” A brown man stepped onto the street; brown because he had brown hair, brown eyes, and wore brown robes and onto the street because he had been floating above me and settled to the ground.

                “Oh crap.” The words had barely escaped my lips when I was caught in a mage’s trap. A sick purple glow encircled my wrists and throat holding me still and sweating. I hated magic. Magic was for cheaters, no clean skill against skill contest there. But sure enough, the mage was right. I was sweating.

                “The great Caid laid low by a single spell. By your reputation I thought you’d be … taller.”

                “What can I say? I’m tall enough to get the job done. “ I’d have shrugged if I wasn’t slowly being stretched between the three points. “You’ve heard of me as is only right. But I haven’t heard of you so you must be some piss-poor mage hiding behind his master’s robes.”

                The mage approached and pulled the box out of my jerkin. “I’ll just take this and be on my way. My men will have their fun with you.”

                “Not so fast.” My feet weren’t bound in spells and I took full advantage of that fact. I landed a kick where it counts the most. No man can keep concentration in the face of that agony. And the mage was barely a man. The binding spell dropped and I fell to my knees.

                As I reached for the box, one of the gents stomped on it and it cracked under his weight. I hooked his ankle and lifted. He landed on his back with a ‘whoof’.  I snatched up the box and ran. I hadn’t come prepared to deal with the mage.

                The second goon tackled me and we both fell to the ground. I wrestled him to the bottom of the stack and a short quick jab to the chin had his eyes rolling up in his head.  The box was smashed to smithereens and I could see the fat paycheck trickling away. A glitter of gold caught my eye among the splinters.

                A ring. All this over a glitzy piece of fluff? Maybe it was for some girl. Some fools did extraordinary things for girls. It didn’t matter, maybe I could still get some of my commission if I brought back the ring.

                I slipped the ring over one scarred knuckle, sliding it on to my little finger. A black oily cloud seeped from the ring and crawled up my arm leaving a chill in its wake. The mage eyed me while the magic enveloped me and then soaked into my skin leaving an awful nauseous feeling in my gut.

                I spat a word that wasn’t fit for a lady’s ears. Hell, it wasn’t fit for a gentleman’s ears. My night had just got a whole lot worse.

        

                “Of course.” Zhina stood and stepped into his arms, where she had been trying to end up all evening.

                Denetrian led her through the crowds. His arrogance and security in his position cleared a path to the dance area. Dancers swirled by under brightly colored paper lanterns while a three-man band took its turn upon the low platform that served as a stage for the street fair.

                When a new, slower song began, Denetrian whirled her into the dance before settling down to a smooth leisurely pace. “You enjoying the fair?” He smiled at her, his eyes flickered over her head to the crowds beyond.

                “I am now, Lord Korkahti.”

                “Have we met?”

                “No. But we share a friend. Taist?”  Ouch. She hoped the bruises on her hand would be worth it.

                “What do you know of Taist?” His eyes didn’t wander now, they were firmly fixed on her face.

                Good, she had his attention now.

                “Do you play Kings and Pawns, m’lord?”

                “Tell me where Taist is. What have you done with him?” His dancing became stiffer, more like a military maneuver than a dance.

                “I’ve done nothing with him. It’s what you’ve done with him that matters. Where is the Elsullian Board?” The dance was half over, she needed something to go on. A tiny clue to make her next step with. The chances of confronting Demetrian anywhere else were slim. They didn’t exactly move in the same social circles.

                “The Elsullian Board? It’s you. You’re the one.” Denetrian pulled her closer. His breath teased loose hair near her ear as he whispered, “Taist was suppose to meet you. Arrange the trade. I haven’t seen him in three days. What did you do to him?”

                “Nothing. I did nothing.” Zhina pushed against his chest, a tight smile on her face for the onlookers. “You are hurting me.”

                He eased his grip on her. Not all the way but enough she could breathe and watch his face as she spoke. “I need the Elsullian Board. What do you want for it?”

                “What? No threats to expose my secrets if I don’t give it to you?” He laughed, harsh and low. “I sent Taist to arrange the trade. The Elsullian Board for the proof of my father’s sins. If anything happened to him, you’re dead.”

                Zhina knew Taist was dead. She had found him in the alley, eyes open and staring, blood drying in the gaping wound of his throat. The Kings and Pawns playing piece in his pocket led her to Denetrian.

                “M’lord, clearly there is some mistake. I know nothing of a trade. I only need the Board. It is urgent that I get it.” Zhina let a single tear slip down her cheek and her lip quiver.

                “Drop it. Your act isn’t worthy of a ha’penny show on market day.” Denetrian maintained a firm hold on her arm as he walked her back through the crowd. “If you aren’t the one who arranged the trade, who is? What do you want with the Elsullian Board?”

                “I need it to save my daughter.” Zhina pulled her arm free and disappeared into the drunken crowd. She would find another way to get the information she needed. She rubbed the playing piece tucked away in her bodice. Her little girl needed her, she would find a way.

        

                Clip. Clop. Clip Clop.

                Amika stayed hidden among the shadows. The driver neither saw her nor heard her, she was too good for that. She had spent long hours on creaky floors and between hanging sheets and bells practicing for her mentor, Scree. He whipped her legs with a cane every time one of the bells rang or a sheet swayed in the wind of her passing and then he made her do it again. And again.

                The front door opened and Lord and Lady Kalingim erupted into the night with stern orders to “Keep an eye on things” from him and a cloud of sharp smelling perfume from her. The carriage creaked under their weight as they stepped inside. A quick snap of the carriage whip and they were off. Off to some party where everyone minced around in too tight shoes with too tight smiles on their faces.

                Lud. Amika was grateful to be spared that life.

                When the street was silent but for the hiss of the gas, Amika made her way to the front door. The windows were darker now, one eye closed for the night. She fumbled in the bag slung across her shoulders and pulled out a small ceramic bottle and a soft cloth. She hated this stuff. She had heard of folks dying from too much of this potion. Too little and she wouldn’t be able to finish her job. What Scree wanted, Scree got.

                Amika dripped some of the potion onto the cloth a drop at a time. When she had enough she put the bottle away and knocked on the door with a quick glance up and down the street. Wouldn’t do for some nob to catch her in rags on the front doorstep, he might think her a beggar and set the watch on her. She wasn’t opposed to spending a night in the gaol now and again but she had better lined up. If she could finish her dithering and get this job done.

                The rap on the door was firm and steady, professional even. A messenger come calling in the middle of the night. When the servant opened the door, Amika darted forward and covered his nose and mouth with the cloth soaked in the potion. Her eyes swept the street and she strained to hear any sound while she waited the agonizingly slow moments for the magic to do its work.

                Luckily all remained quiet and still while the old man slumped in her arms. Working quickly, she dragged him inside and kicked the door shut. Amika found a pillow on the chair in the entry hall and placed it beneath the old man’s head. He wouldn’t be grateful for the courtesy but she couldn’t stand to leave him be on the cold floor.

                “Third door on the left.” That’s what Scree had said. Third door on the left was where she’d find it, in the gent’s study.  She slipped through the polished wooden door and stood in the dark, settling her nerves. She had gotten by the dragon at the door. The rest should be easy.

                Reaching again into her bag, she pulled out  an old brass candle holder, the handle long ago broken off. She mixed two powders in the recess in the middle with a bit of her spit to bind them together. Soon a dim light illuminated the area around her. One day she hoped Scree would tell her where he got his toys.

                Amika looked around the room and blew out a very low whistle. “Fancy that, a room for books and gew gaws.” She shook herself free from the awe she felt at the foibles of the rich and headed for the opposite wall. A painting hung there of a green field dotted with pale purple flowers and trees.  It was all very foreign. Nothing like that here in the city. It was pretty.

                She couldn’t practice this part. Not even Scree could afford the enchantment like this to practice on. She knew what she had to do. In theory. She was a good student. She could do this.

                She set the light aside and closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. In and out. In and out. Time passed, Amika concentrated. The old man would be in dreamland for hours and the rich nobs who owned this place wouldn’t be back until dawn. When she had her focus, she opened her eyes. She lifted her hand and reached for the tree, only the tree, nothing but the tree. Her hand slid through the surface of the painting and it was as like putting her hand through dry dusty cobwebs.

                She was doing it. Her breathing quickened and her concentration began to fall apart. The painting gripped her hand, tightening with each ragged breath. Amika snapped her eyes closed again and breathed, scrambling for focus again. Gradually the painting released its hold on her and her fingers found something. Something hidden in the painting.

                She closed her fingers around the smooth cold object she had come for and withdrew it from the painting. Amika held it close to the light, admiring the red fire in the heart of the jewel when light speared through the shadows as the door opened.

                A masculine silhouette stood leaning against the door jam and applauded. “Well done, my little theif. Well done.”

        

I have been described as “too honest” by my mother. “Brutally honest” or “blunt” by friends and co-workers. My children laugh at me when I try to lie to hide things, like presents and surprises, from them. They know when I am lying. I have found it safer to just avoid a direct answer.

Friends ask me “Does this look good on me?” and I don’t want to hurt their feelings so I try to temper a negative response with a positive aspect but I can’t lie and say “Yes, it does” if I don’t think so.

I love to make up stories though. When I am in a medium where a lie is expected, I love it. On the stage and in stories, it is ok to make things up and I go crazy. I explore things that are darker than I ever want to see in real life. I pretend to like things that I am too scared of.

I am drawn to the fantasy genre for this very reason. Everyone knows or at least believes that magic and dragons and monsters don’t exist. I tell stories set in places where these things might exist and try to make it as real as possible but I know that everyone will know it is make-believe.

So what do you think? Do storytellers have to be good liars? Or to put it the other way around do good liars make good storytellers?