I sat for a time by the memorial. It was peaceful, in it’s way. Strange though, that stories so fresh could be hidden in the fog of that pub. Willow, Rosette, even Phil. I should be able to know them, and yet I am hindered.
The stories bubble up through the stones of the City, like water from a deep well. I cannot help but drink. It is what I was called here to do. When I first came to D’ni, I was wrapped in fear, overwhelmed by things my heart could see, things my soul could hear, but my eyes and my ears denied.
I ran in frightened circles, confused. Slowly, gradually, I came to understand. Stories *want* to be heard. Songs want to be sung.
Today, someone new came to the city, overwhelmed. And so I told him of the D’ni. The words came, as natural as falling rain, and yet as inexplicably sweeping as the blue beam that spins about the Cavern.
Someone came asking for “the storyteller”, and more words came to my lips, and came out to the waiting ears.
I am the Storyteller. Walk softly on the stones of D’ni, for the stones hear, and the stones remember, and the stories are told.