Laughter was a welcome change from the emptiness of the plains. Earyn tipped another ladle of stew over the thick brown rice and chuckled around the mouthfuls. Stew wasn’t something that packed well, and she’d spent too many months on long rations bread and jerky.
When the storyteller was done the stone passed to the next set of hands and this time she watched as tales of derring-do played out across the fire. The speaker played to the backdrop’s strength and the fire salamander of the tale rippled across the flames as if it were alive. She wasn’t the only one that gasped as the illusion darted back and forth, chased by a tiny hero with a magical sword.
The next few tales were old favorites, one obviously meant for a water telling, but enjoyable none the less. By the end of the night Earyn was comfortably full of stew and stories, and broke ranks somewhat reluctantly for bed.
Storystones were rare in the realms of men, and finding one within a simple caravan was an unexpected treat.