Stories concerning dragons typically end the same way, especially in the telling. The beast falls. The village cheers, celebrating. And the storyteller, the one retelling the tale? She collects her due. Villagers living in Beringer had no reason to think otherwise when a stranger came asking questions no traveler had asked in eighty years. With him, he carried something worth more than the answers he was willing to buy.

The stranger entered the village of Beringer. His cloak was weathered, as was the hat sitting askew on his head, tilted to one side. “Old Maren,” the baker shared with him. “Old Maren? She tells the tale best. At least that’s what we say here in Beringer. As for the nearby villages? Who can say?” Her loud laugh drew attention to not only herself, but the stranger.

He stopped at the silversmith, looking for him to repair a ring, a silver oval ring, one green stone running through the center of the band. The stone was loose. “Fine craftsmanship, even if I do say so myself. It’s a royal ring, is it not?”

“It’s not your business,” the stranger shot back. “I need to know if the stories Old Maren tells are true, or if they are exaggerated.” He held out a small pouch and shook it. Inside the bag, the contents jiggled. “This? Is yours. If you can fix it and tell me where I can find her.”

“Oh, yes, shall I call you sire? Or my lord?” He waved his hand at the man, staring at the leather pouch. “I fix the ring, and you are on your way?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. My lord?”

The stranger didn’t acknowledge him.

“Very well. I will get to work on this. Should take no more than a few moments. Be right back.” He stepped behind a thick curtain.  

The stranger stood staring at the curtain, jiggling the bag. The silversmith rightly assumed it was filled with something valuable. Either gold, or the silver coins of the realm. Perhaps jewels? Then again, jewels wouldn’t make that sound.

“Tell me, stranger. Why all this talk about the dragon? Have you come to kill it? Oooh!” he reappeared from behind the curtain. “Is this about revenge? I heard, pray tell, the dragon killed the daughter of a royal family some years back. Is that the real reason you are here?” He ducked back behind the curtain, polishing the ring with a soft leather cloth. “There you are, my lord. Good as new.” He handed the stranger the ring, holding it high enough that the light from the outside, glinting through the cracks in the walls, glinted off it. “It’s the brightest green gem I’ve seen in these parts.”

The stranger, without a word, tossed the bag at the silversmith. “Maren. She’s in the next village?”

“Yes, my lord, in Tamsworth, a few miles from here. But. Well. It’s just.” The silversmith opened the pouch and dumped several highly polished gold coins onto the wooden table.

“Just what?”

“Maren isn’t just any storyteller.” He leaned closer to the stranger after scooping up the coins. “She’s got a magic about her.”

“So, she’s a mage?”

“No, no, no. Not a mage, my lord. But magic? Yes, I suppose you could say her words carry magic in them.”

“Perhaps that alone says more about the teller, and less about the words.”

“True enough, my lord.” He shook the coins in the bag. “A lot of gold for such a simple job. Are you trying not to be found?”

“You ask a lot of questions for a simple silversmith.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord. It’s just. Well. We don’t get many strangers out here. Not carrying this,” he shook the bag, “or wearing a precious piece of silver, like that.” He pointed at his hand, the ring now adorning his right ring finger.  

“I suppose not.” The stranger walked out of the small shop, leaving the silversmith with the bag of gold coins. Before he exited, he spun around. “It would be wise to forget you saw me, my ring, or asked about the old woman.”

The silversmith’s face turned white, and he nodded slowly. “Yes, my lord. I don’t want any trouble.”