"It's always such an odd thing!" Belted a voice as a hulking presence made its way within the tavern. "I never understood why anybody would be so fond of..."

The voice drifted off as the figure finally realized itself, peering around the tavern. It was a woman of amazing stature, at least three meters tall, who had to lean down slightly to fit entirely. Her long, bright hair, coiled tightly, cascaded down her back and tied neatly at the small of it into a curt bow. The person she had been talking to was none other than Ardour, who waved at the Storyteller once the man caught his eye. Ardour whispered something to the woman, and she peered at the Storyteller with amazing disdain.

Ardour smiled sheepishly, as though to tell the man [i]"sorry."[/i]

The giant took two mere steps and stood above the Storyteller, bobbing her head to the side.

"You. I saw you, last week. That fire." She demanded. "You're good with it. Make me some."

Ardour blinked, turning back surprisedly at the giant. He hadn't been expecting that. All the same, the Storyteller sat quite stoically and listened to her request. Or... demand. Ardour had been trying to leave, but now decided to stay and just watch with curiosity.

"Why do you want--?" Ardour began.

"--Because," boomed the giant. "Your daemon burnt all of my crops when I asked her to burn only a patch of my grass." She spoke with venom on her tongue.

"Don't speak of Ruby that way!" Ardour replied indignantly, resting a hand on his hip. "It's not her fault. And if all of your crops are gone, then why do you still need fire?"

"To burn your wife." The giant proudly answered.

Ardour looked aghast. He glanced back to the Storyteller, murmuring something along the lines of "can you believe this? And I thought [i]I[/i] had a bad temperament..."

The Storyteller exhaled evenly and adjusted his posture, goodnaturedly beckoning Ardour and the giant alike to sit. When they obliged, they listened keenly. (Despite the giant's sour face.)

[hr]

There once was a young man who lived in a village in the heart of the valley. His mother called him Blackthorn, for he was quick-witted and quick to anger, as the wicked thorns that grow in the field are. His father, strong but of scarce patience, taught him the lesson that every boy in the valley learned early -- 'when you are wronged, you must return the wound twice as deep, or else you will never be freed from it.'

And so, Blackthorn lived by this lesson. When another child stole his toy, he shattered theirs in return. When a man slighted his family, Blackthorn saw to it that the man’s own house was shamed. In time, people grew to fear him, though he was still but a boy.

But there was one person who did not fear him. A girl. This girl was named Birch for her soft and sweet temperament. She was kind to Blackthorn although he never understood why; he never deserved it. 

One day, Blackthorn’s father was wronged—cheated in trade, made a fool of before the village. Furious, Blackthorn sought vengeance on the man responsible. He crept into the man’s fields at night, setting fire to his harvest, laughing as the golden crops turned to blackened ruin.

But Blackthorn did not know that the man's family was inside. He did not know that the fire would spread so quickly, or be as ravenous in hunger as it had been. He did not know, until dawn the next day, that Birch had been inside. Blackthorn had won his vengeance -- but along with it, he felt no triumph. There was now no price that vengeance could ever repay that lingered over his head. 

From that day forward, the sharpest thing about Blackthorn was his sorrow. No wound had ever cut so deep as the one he had carved into himself.

[hr]

The giant stared quietly, fiddling with a strand of golden hair. She looked dumbfounded.

Ardour smiled mischievously, his eyes flickering from the giant to the storyteller with amusement.

"Any particular reason you decided to share [i]this[/i] story?" He asked.

"None of consequence, no." The storyteller answered simply. Ardour laughed.