storyteller's campsite
home of allaire mikháil
"This is a haven for the exhausted traveler," the young man said. He threw a concerned look to the newcomer, an old man who huddled tiredly closer to the flames of the campfire, "Warm yourself, father, and take a bowl of soup."
The old one wrapped his cloak closer around his still shivering body. "Thank you. The desert is cold at night. I've been searching for a place to rest and saw the fire." He put his thin, frail hands over the flickering flames. Sparks danced upwards and disappeared in the darkness. A myriad of stars blinked in the soft dark of the nightly sky.
The people around the campfire shifted closer to the warmth and passed a skin of cold, fresh water around. Old faces, young faces, male and female ones, haggard, tired faces, some full of laughter, others of exhaustion.
In the desert, all kinds of travelers met around campfires. A bowl of soup, and the comforting sound and smell of horses and camels nearby.
The young man broke the silence. "Among my people, it is custom to trade stories before we go to sleep." A smile lit his face as the others raised their heads to listen, forgetting tiredness. "Father, what about you? By the looks of you, you have traveled many roads, seen many places. To my people, many tales and legends are known, but we always crave for new stories to tell others around a campfire, like we do tonight."
The old man shrugged the hood of his cloak back and gazed dreamingly into the flames. The fire cast a golden shine over his rugged features and, for a brief, magical moment, he appeared to be even younger than his companion who had asked him so eagerly for a story.
Slowly, he began to tell a tale, and the others huddled closer together as not to miss a word... And the leaping flames danced across their enraptured faces, and even the stars seemed to listen...

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