The tales surround me, misty fables drifting in the morning fog as I walk the paths the gods decreed for me. Each tale wafts by, begging me to tell it again to the children, the hunters around the fires, the people at the gatherings, or even carve them again into the stone for eternal preservation.
Each tale has a song or many that go with it. Tunes and notes, pacing and beats they must be relayed with. Some I learned at the fires and hearths, in my apprenticeship. Others the gods relayed to me, sending the Muses to inspire my fingers and lips to tell the tales, weaving mists of Faith into enchantments to bind the listeners for the time it takes me to tell the story or sing the song to the magical world the gods foretell will come again.
Sometimes I meet others in these mists, gathering their own tales from gods I never knew existed. They bear strange instruments to my eyes, not the harps and flutes, not even the ram's horns, but other devices for music, some small and compact, others large and bulky. Some come with just their memory, others with stones to use their chisels and hammers on, a few use a crow's quill to make marks on shaved bark or trees, and stranger ones have their fingers dance across bizarre devices that magically make their marks on a crystal plate set upright before them.
Yet we all walk this foggy realm for the same reason, to gather some of its mysteries, and bring them back to our dreary worlds, sharing them as bright moments in the descending darkness the evil of our times and places are oppressed by.
Yes, the myths are from the mists, but the mists arise from our yearning souls. Thoughts and dreams, seeking release. And when we bring them back home, the ring out in out hearts, raising them.
Now, girl, take my hand, and I will show you the way to the Fogs of the Forgotten Dreams, and how to gather in the mists, and bring back the tales the gods want us to tell.
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