“And over there, a figure with a staff, four stars in a line, do you see it? This one doesn't have a name, just a title. The Wandering Stranger. That's because there are many different names it goes by. Perhaps she's a crotchety old Balra, leaning on her stick as she walks by, or a youth bearing all his possessions in a single bindlestick. Doesn't matter.”
The storyteller waves her hand, dismissing her own tangent.
“Point is, you won't know when you've met it. It just turns up. It asks to sit by your campfire, and, if willing, tells you a tale. I've heard the story changes each time – sometimes the story of a young girl being shunned from her pack, or a widowed husband grieving his partner, or a raucous tale involving three herders, a litre of spirits, and an empty barn.”
The storyteller gives a suggestive motion, cut short as her wife gives her a gentle cuff on the back of the neck. “There are children here!”
“Sorry, dear. Point is, it's a good story, and you'll never forget it, as long as you live. Night falls, and you sleep, rain falling outside your shelter. Then it leaves. It may stick around for a day or so, ask you to drop it off at the nearest town, that sort of thing, but it doesn't hang around for long. Needs to get back to the stars, you see?”
“Of course, it may not be the Wandering Stranger who asks to sit down. It really may be that dear old granny or runaway youth. But it doesn't matter. The point is… the real point is, whoever it is, invite them to sit, and ask for their story. Everyone has one. And it may just be the best story you've ever heard.”