[X] Wuyin
- [X] Well, it seems Brother Liang didn't need my help after all. A shame really. It would have been fun. Still, with the festival coming up, Wuyin cannot help but feel... a little inspired. And so she would take her sword, and carve a story of her own into the stones of the mountain. As an offering, for the Celestial Rabbit and the Laughing Mountain... and as a thank you. Wuyin would like to think she has come a long way from what she once was, but she still must give credit to her fortunes. And while luck was in many ways a skill, it was only polite to acknowledge that she was far from a master in said skill. That, and she had always found great comfort in laughing at the absurdities of this world. Cultivator though she may be, while she may no longer exactly worship the gods... she can still say thank you. For all cultivators were once mortals, were they not?
Somewhere, in the depths of more tamed wilds of the Red Dew Mountain, a large scrawling of text is carved into stone. The writing is more... meticulous. Calligraphy level, even. More impressive that it was carved with a sword of all things. It's location is never revealed, but it is placed such that one may stumble upon it with good fortune by simply wandering about. The text reads as follows:
The Tale of the Storyteller
Once, there was a story teller.
A weaver of tales of all shapes and sizes.
He had told countless stories of many kinds. Of grand heroes from worlds unknown, to lowly ants seeking to simply survive.
He had spun so many stories, and told them each thousands upon thousands of times.
And each time he had to ask himself the same question:
What story do I tell next?
He thought long and hard about this question each time, and each time, he came up with another answer.
Until one day, he was stumped.
He had told every tale he wanted to tell. So what then, was left?
And so the storyteller set out on a journey to find his next story.
He journeyed towards the shining sun, and asked him what his next story should be.
The sun replied:
"Tell a story filled with stories. For stories inspire stories in and of themselves. Every story ends, but stories themselves never do."
The story teller pondered on these words, before moving on.
Next, the storyteller sought out the mysterious moon, and asked her what his next story should be.
The moon replied:
"The story you should tell is one that can be retold to many. A good story is one that changes and grows, finding new ways to reach new listeners."
The story teller pondered on these words, before moving on.
As the story teller walked, they mulled over the words of the Sun and Moon. A story of stories, ever changing and ever growing. But how could one story teller ever tell such a tale? Would they not spend their lives telling a story that never seemed to end or repeat?
A troubling thought for a story teller. He mulled over the words over and over again, before at last he sought to reach the top of the mountain to ask for one last piece of guidance.
Eventually, the story teller came to the rumbling storm, and recounted to them the words that the Sun and Moon had offered him.
The storm rumbled and thundered in thought. And with the cry of bright lightning, the answer rang out!
"Who says a story must be told alone?"
And so the storyteller at last had his answer.
The story teller rushed down the mountain, and told his newest story to anyone he met.
He told of a world filled with mystery and danger, tragedy and victory. Where gods walked the land alongside mortals, and where any mortal held the chance, however slim, to become a god themselves.
And at the very end, he asked his listeners: What did they think came next?
Each time received a different answer, each time a new story began. Stories of heroes and villains. Romance and comradery. Battles of wits and words, against a world that seemed to rise up against all who lived upon it.
And with each answer, the story would carry on. Told no longer by the storyteller, but by the ones he had told the story to.
On and on it went. From teller to listener, changing and growing, a story ending and a story beginning.
And to this day, that story continues to be told. In every tree, in every stone, in peasants, in nobles, in humble fields and in grand palaces.
All one needed to do... was listen. And tell their own tale in response.
