The world was the desert and the desert was the world. This was the truth and it always would be. For the man wandering this desert, that was all that mattered. He was the only source of movement across that wasteland, a fractured shadow of a man. Beneath the brim of his hat was a face half-swallowed by the ravages of a past tragedy. It held a field of scars, decorated only by a small black patch that covered the hole where his right eye should’ve been. The other was a steely blue orb that had lost none of its vision but was drained of all emotion. Whether the affliction that tainted his face was affecting the rest of his body was uncertain. Even in the desert heat, this figure wore a long overcoat, a pair of gloves and thick heavy boots. He carried no possessions, none save a large, heavy book bound to his waist by a thick chain of various metals. The man was used to the solitude of his world, reveled in its simplicity. It was his refuge against reality, against the truth, against the sins of his past. His isolation was his rightful atonement. So he was suitably disturbed to see that this sacred seclusion had been broken. The intruder was standing next to the entrance of his cave, pacing back and forth. He was thin and stork-like, amazingly pale yet he did not squint against the desert sun. A pair of thin spectacles rested upon the edge of his nose, a long, delicate finger thoughtfully tapped his too-full lips. “Ah, hello!” The intruder spoke, noticing him at last, “I’m guessing you’re the Spellslinger, right?” The Spellslinger’s hand rested on the old, tattered book. “There were once those who called me that. How did you get here?” The intruder gave an embarrassed smile and scratched the back of his head. “Well, I was trying to figure out a problem when I had a moment of inspiration. I had this dream of you meeting a hobo oracle one night. I knew this was no ordinary dream so as soon as I woke; I committed your visage to both my memory and my notebook. On the third day I began to sense an unfinished tale. I followed the trail through paths even you are unaware of, and well…” he spread out his hands to encompass the entire desert, “…here we are.” “Oh hell,” the Spellslinger said, and although he’d slaughtered giants without flinching, slayed dragons with nary a tremble, his knees felt suddenly weak in the presence of the intruder. “You’re the goddamn Talesmith, aren’t you?” The intruder’s smile only grew. “I prefer to think I collect the stories, not create them.” “That’s not what I heard.” The Spellslinger took a steadying breath and before he could close his lips, a childhood rhyme slipped through. Something he’d read from the Grimoire and nowhere else. "Remember now, that order and peace

Are what the Talesmith likes the least.

He’ll joke and cry and plot and plead,

Whatever it takes to make men bleed.” “Could’ve sworn I got rid of that…” The Talesmith’s smile had faded. “But we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about you.” “There’s nothing to talk about. I wander this desert. I always have.” The Talesmith cocked his head. “Really? Then who first called you the Spellslinger?” A gloved hand touched the scar-ridges of his face, the other clenched tight on the leather-bound book. His gritted his teeth and nearly spat out: “Someone I would rather not think about.” The Talesmith raised his hands defensively. “Alright, alright. So you’re not ready to talk about that yet.” He looked around, “So, uh… how’s living in this desert, huh? Bit hot and lonely, and, ya know… generally unpleasant for my tastes, but to each their own, right?” The Spellslinger’s mouth twisted to what might have been a smile. “I belong here. There’s nothing to worry about, nothing to fear.” “Fear, eh?” The Talesmith’s attention locked on to that last sentence. “And outside the desert? Anything to fear?” The Spellslinger started to shake his head but before he could speak the Talesmith continued. “TELL ME, what’s out there?” “The Black Beast.” The Spellslinger found his mouth moving before he could think. He was powerless over his own voice. “The Devouring Wolf. But she cannot find me here.” “So that’s it!” The Talesmith looked nearly exultant in revelation. “You’re being hunted!” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. “So what are you being hunted over, eh? I just love a tale with a twisted back-story.” “It doesn’t matter. I paid my price. More than any man should have to suffer.” The Talesmith’s grin vanished once again, that conspiratorial twinkle in his eye was replaced by the dull gleam of the Inquisitor. “DO NOT LIE TO ME. What happened?” The Spellslinger willed his tongue to silence, but to no avail. It was only through sheer force of will that he managed to slow his words. “I walked where no man was meant to tread. I attempted to take what was not mine.” He took a deep breath, using every last ounce of reserve to hide his deepest tragedy. “I paid deeply for my mistakes. This desert is the only place for me now.” The Talesmith shook his head. “You may believe that, but I sure as hell don’t. You, my friend, are in hiding and fear. And that is thinking you need to GET AWAY from.” The Spellslinger’s legs took up a mind of their own and began to head west. “What the hell is this?” Every step brought him closer to the edge of the desert. The Talesmith took up a leisurely stroll behind him. “You know what the problem with your story is, Spellslinger? No resolution. You can’t just say ‘and then our hero hid in the desert for the rest of his natural life’. There’s gotta be some shock and awe. Some fireworks!” The Spellslinger’s feet kept moving forward, closer to that hair-raising howl, closer to that hell his very own hands had wrought. “Please,” he choked, somewhere beneath the fear he was amazed at how his voice cracked, how his knees trembled with each reluctant step. “Please don’t do this.” “Sorry,” the Talesmith said, though his face showed he felt nothing of the sort, “but it has to be done. Your story is unfinished and although you don’t want to go into the details, I can tell it has all the makings of a legend.” “I PAID MY PRICE!” The Spellslinger shouted, mind racing, cursing at his traitorous feet, which kept him moving onward. Ever onward. “IT’S NOT FAIR! I PAID MY FUCKING PRICE!” For a second, the Talesmith’s stoic mask broke. “I wish I could tell you everything would be alright, that it’ll all work out in the end. But to be honest, I don’t know if it will. All I know is that I need a legend,” he laid his hand on the Spellslinger’s shoulder, “and one way or another, you’re going to give me that.” That day, the Spellslinger left the desert. And never returned.