Tales By The Tavern Fire

In this medieval fantasy sleep story, on your way to a festival in the king’s city, you stop for the night at a small-town inn. While taking supper in the tavern, you meet other weary travelers on their way to the same destination. You share tales with the other guests as the rain comes down, making new connections.

Feat. rain, wind, and fire sound effects

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Clairvoyance by Syntropy, & Careful Consideration by Jon Bjork, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Share stories around the cozy fire of a medieval tavern in tonight's fantasy bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Listen to my voice for as long as you like and whenever you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and find your way to sleep.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing visualization for connection.

In tonight's story,

You are on your way to a festival in the king's city when you stop for the night at a small town inn while taking supper in the tavern.

You meet other weary travelers on their way to the same destination.

You share friendly conversation with the other guests,

Exchanging whispers and tales from the road.

As the rain comes down outside,

You discover that you have much more in common with the others than you expected.

The bards sing of love,

They celebrate slaughter,

They extol kings and flatter queens,

But were I a poet,

I would write in praise of friendship.

Bernard Cornwell,

The Winter King What a comfort and a wonder it is to enter warm quarters out of pouring rain,

To find pleasant and welcoming company on the unknown road.

Indeed it is one of the chief miracles of this life were it put to you,

Finding anchorage at the very moment it's most needed.

Shuffling off your rain-soaked boots and shaking free of your damp cloak,

You care nothing for the stale,

Musty air of the rooms.

They're dry enough,

And warm plenty,

And a safe retreat from the storm.

In truth,

You'd hope to travel well into the night and make it at least a few leagues further down the road.

But the storm moved in quite suddenly and without warning,

As if by providence.

Just as the rain began to fall,

You perceived a light,

Fuzzy and orange,

In the dale.

The innkeeper is kind,

The sort of friendly fellow who works in the trade for love of people,

And deep curiosity about difference.

You were met on entry with a thousand questions.

From whence you came,

To whither you travel,

And what news you have from the south.

Hot supper,

The innkeeper said,

Would be ready soon,

And you'd be most welcome to a mug of ale or cider by the fire.

All of that sounds infinitely tempting to you now.

Swapping out your wet socks and muddy boots for another pair from your traveling bag.

Oh,

It's such a comfort to put on dry socks.

And hanging your cloak on a hook to dry,

You turn back for the door and make your way to the tavern on the ground floor,

Where before there were only a few patrons huddled over pints at solitary tables.

Now several more have taken up residence on benches and around the blazing hearth.

The innkeeper,

A rag slung over his shoulder,

Brings frosty steins to a table of weary-looking folks in grey-green cloaks.

You overhear his jovial greetings to the three of them.

Not too often we see half-elves this way,

He says,

Beaming.

All are welcome here,

Of course.

And my Mary's lamb and leek pies are just out of the oven.

How many for you?

Most of the patrons are human,

Like you.

Though there's a somewhat surly-looking dwarf at a table in the corner,

The whole place is lowly lit,

With candles dripping wax that pools in brass and copper holders on every table.

The wooden crossbeams on the low ceiling and slab-stone archways reflect the candlelight and that from the fireplace,

Which offers a pleasing crackle.

You find yourself an open table,

Close to the half-elf party,

And a perfect distance from the fire,

Where its warmth is enough to comfort you,

But not so intense as to flush your cheeks and sting your eyes.

The innkeeper is glad to see you freshened up and ready for company.

His rosy face,

Plump and pleasant,

Splits into a welcoming smile.

You'll have one of those pies sent to you straightway,

Unless you prefer stew and fresh bread,

Of course.

You can rustle up anything you like.

You hadn't realized how hungry you were until you sat down.

Now you're even more grateful for this port in the storm.

Though the inn and tavern are relatively small,

The rain seems miles away,

Within this cocoon of warmth and welcome.

Just as the innkeeper plants a mug before you,

The door to the inn swings wide,

And a flash of lightning without illuminates a figure in the doorway.

Happy words of welcome greet her,

A dark-haired lady who looks to be of high birth by her dress and manner.

She sits down,

Straightaway at a table very near the fire,

Which illuminates her features plainly.

About her neck is a deep green amulet,

Wrought with a silver chain.

As the room fills,

Guests entering from the rain or coming down from their rooms,

There's a fair bit of shifting glances as you take each other in.

Not surprisingly,

The innkeeper remarks that it's the fullest his place has been on a given night in many years,

And with all sorts of people,

And what a delight.

Just last evening,

He was here alone in the bar room,

While Mary made pies in the kitchen for no one to eat.

Just me,

My Mary and the cat it was,

He says,

To no one in particular.

The food he brings you is hearty and delicious,

Seeming to feed your very soul.

You feel stronger,

More resilient and energized,

As opposed to the road-worn self you first dragged through the door.

And those around you clearly perk up after a few bites,

Too,

As if there's some magic seasoning sprinkled in the pie crust and stew that awakens the heart and stirs courage.

Soon the quiet conversations,

Isolated between tables and traveling companions,

Begin to overlap.

Heads turn,

Bodies lean back in chairs as guests begin to compare weather conditions,

The obstacles they've met on the road,

And the destinations in store for each party.

Coincidentally,

Though perhaps this should not surprise you at all,

You are in the company of a dozen or more others on their way to the same place as you.

A festival honoring the crown prince's coming of age.

The whispers throughout the kingdom,

Though they may be greatly distorted and exaggerated,

Suggest that the king regent will install his nephew upon the throne during the festivities.

There are rumors that a lost heir to the old king's line has surfaced,

And the king regent must act swiftly to secure his family's place,

Crowning the prince before all the public,

So there's no question to the validity of his rule.

By your measure,

It's never much mattered who sat on the high throne of the kingdom.

You answer mostly to the local lords,

Who provide protection and benefits in exchange for taxes and work.

What draws you to the festival is a chance to sell your wares to a wealthier clientele,

And those who might find your crafts novel and exotic.

You hail from the far southern tip of the kingdom,

Where the air is crisp and salty,

And a mulberry tree grows that produces the richest and most elegant dyes.

You're well respected in your region as a dyer of textiles and producer of fine pigments.

With luck,

You'll be able to sell bolts of fabric and wool to noble lords and ladies at court,

Who've never worn such a lush palette of golds and greens.

It seems every guest at the inn has a different reason for traveling to the king's festival.

You learn that the trio of half-elves intend to seek an audience with the regent.

They've long paid tribute to one of his dukes,

And wish to entreat him for sole sovereignty of their lands.

The dwarf,

Whose surly expression melts to a serene one after a few mugs of ale,

Brings gifts for the crown prince,

Mined from the old mountains.

Only the lady by the fire,

About whose neck hangs the strange amulet,

Remains reticent with her motives.

Though the hour grows late,

And bellies are full,

The atmosphere in the tavern is so warm and companionable that no one seems eager to retire to bed.

A twosome sitting in the corner near the kitchen reveal themselves to be traveling bards,

And the rest of the guests persuade them to play a merry song for the gathering.

It doesn't take much convincing for them to produce a harp and a flute,

And to begin playing a charming melody that floats in the background of continued conversation.

The innkeeper is mightily pleased.

How nice it would be,

He remarks,

To have such passing sweet music here all the year round.

He'll learn that his name is Hal,

And he and his wife,

Mary,

Have owned and operated the inn for nearly twenty years now.

Built it with me own hands,

He insists,

Displaying his rough,

Calloused hands as proof that the crossing of the three great roads knew we'd always have guests from one way or another,

Though a night like this we don't see often.

Get all types,

Mind you,

Just not always all at once.

Hal's laughter is booming and infectious,

And he has a way of coaxing stories out of even the shyest of guests.

He longs to hear stories of the further duchies and petty kingdoms,

Or stories of the roads,

But hasn't anyone a tale of adventure or excitement to share?

We have a tale to tell.

Ventures one of the three half-elves,

The one named Erin Brightbuckle.

Her fellows give uneasy glances,

But with a tilt of her head,

She seems to reassure them that the company is trustworthy.

A tale of strange occurrence on the road from the north,

The fires blaze,

And the pummeling rain form a curtain of fuzzy,

Crackling sound as the music ceases and Brightbuckle begins her tale.

It was three days ago we set off from our village.

Deep in the green forest,

Our guide was the river Durindal,

Which flows southward to the edge of the wood,

Then breaks easterly.

From time immemorial,

A bridge has stood over the river just before its bend,

Leading to the king's road.

But when we came to the forest's edge,

We found the bridge had fallen into the river.

Only a few stones remained,

With crumbling mortar.

We know not how long it was in such disrepair,

For our kind rarely leave the forest,

And so the story continues,

This time the half-elf called Whistle picking up the thread and weaving the narrative.

We followed the river east,

Hoping to come to another crossing,

But by nightfall still we had found nothing,

Not a village,

Or a footbridge,

Or anything.

We were ready to settle and make camp,

To continue searching in the morning,

When we saw a fire a little ways off.

We drew our bows and approached the fire,

A little thing only,

And found,

Sitting beside it,

A hermit in humble robes,

With long silver hair and a beard that nearly reached the earth.

Now the third half-elf,

The one called Thorn,

Picks up the tale.

When he saw us,

He begged that we put away our weapons and join him at his fire.

Stay a while,

He beseeched us,

And share a crust of bread,

For the night was cold.

We asked him if he knew of a crossing nearby,

Or of a harbor where we might find a boat,

But he would not answer,

Only insisting that we sit with him a while,

And bring our warmth to the fire at last.

We put away our bows and acquiesced,

For the old man seemed weary and hungry for company.

But the moment we sat round the small,

Feeble fire,

The flames leapt high into the air,

And turned every color of the rainbow in succession.

The old man,

Seeming to swell from within,

Cast off his shabby cloak and rose to his feet,

Shining bright as the fire itself.

He was grand now,

Robed in fine emerald threads,

His tattered beard now smooth and shiny.

In one hand he clutched a magnificent staff,

And from the other came sparks and mist.

We had to shield our eyes against his light,

Says Brightbuckle,

Reclaiming the tale.

He was one of the old sorcerers of legend,

I say,

The ones they say left this realm for distant shores in the last age.

He looked like a star fallen to the earth,

Grown wise and aged,

In his eyes burned a blue intensity,

And yet,

Threw everything awesome and terrible about him.

He smiled with a kindness that made us weep for our act of compassion,

A simple act of stopping to sit.

With a weary old man,

He raised his staff to the sky and uttered an incantation I cannot repeat,

For the words were in no tongue I've heard before,

And from the staff and gesture of his hand,

A twining of stone and mortar unfurled,

Stone by stone,

At his command.

A bridge lay itself across the rushing river,

It shone there in the moonlight,

Gleaming like gossamer.

When we'd caught our breath and the gleam had faded,

We found the old man gone,

Only embers left of the dying fire.

Shaken as we were,

We crossed the sorcerer's bridge,

But on the other side,

We found three newly fashioned bows of shining birch wood,

And quivers full of gleaming arrows,

One for each of us.

There is silence for a little while,

Save for only the sheets of rain on the windows,

And crackle of fire in the hearth.

It's as if the story has cast a spell upon the unlikely gathering,

As if the tale has struck each heart,

Whispered a secret in each ear.

There are wide eyes all around,

An audience held within the story's enchantment.

You,

One of the spellbound,

Feel a dreamy sense of déjà vu,

As if the half-elves had repeated an old folk tale,

One you hearkened to in your youth,

Forgetting as you came of age.

But then,

You also had a mysterious encounter on the road,

Hither,

Did you not?

It's Hal who breaks the silence at last.

Strange wonders lie on the road these days,

I reckon,

He says.

Come to think of it,

Not a fortnight hence we had a visitor in these parts,

A farmer,

Young one,

Just come of age,

Had a rather unique sword,

As I recall,

Asking questions about dragons in the western mountains,

Of all things.

And wouldn't you know,

Not a few days later there's talk of a dragon sighted again,

First time in living memory.

This sends a bout of whispers across the tavern,

Blending into a natural susurration.

Dragon sightings,

Hermit sorcerers,

These are marvellous times indeed.

I too witnessed wondrous marvels on the road,

Comes a low husky voice.

It's the woman beside the fire,

Speaking at last.

I was older then,

When I left my village,

She says,

Her tongue tracing the first of many riddles.

Wiser,

Too,

My neighbours came to me for charms and remedies,

Potions and tinctures.

I worked with the water and the moon and the plants and was called wise woman.

But before the harvest,

A blight came.

All the crops of all the villagers and all the healing herbs in my garden withered,

And my magic withered.

I left to seek an answer to the sudden dying of the land.

They say the king regent receives counsel from a wise magician,

Nothing like the sorcerers of the past,

But a learned sage with wisdom of the cycles of the world.

So it was of him I sought guidance.

As the lady speaks,

Her raven dark curls in silhouette against the fire.

You sense a presence at your feet,

Peering discreetly under the table.

You meet two bright green eyes.

A cat,

Black with white paws and chest,

Winds its way around your leg,

Gently butting its head against your shin,

Then swiftly deciding it's finished with you.

The cat leaps away and into the lap of Mary,

The innkeeper's wife,

Who now sits and harkens to the tale.

The lady continues,

It was a perilous journey for a woman of my age.

My bones were not what they once were and they sorely ached as I traversed the land.

Yet my quest spurred me on.

Only I could save my home and the magic it held.

You glance about the room and the puzzled expressions of the other guests mirror your confusion.

A storyteller appears to you in the prime of youth,

And yet she speaks of old age and frailty.

You listen on.

On the second night of my travels,

As I searched in vain for shelter for the night and the moon rose full overhead,

A sudden chill took me and I could go no further.

I sat beneath a hazel tree as the cold closed in,

But as I sat and shivered I felt at once a shower of warmth and light upon my face,

Then upon my shoulders and my whole body by the light of the moon.

A young man approached me and from him seemed to come a glowing warmth that then enveloped me.

He took me by the hand and I rose to my feet as though I were weightless.

I moved with a swiftness and an ease I had not known in years.

I followed him through the wood and it was as if we passed through a kind of veil to another world,

For the sun shines as though through a dense fog.

In this strange country the food tasted sweeter and the earth yielded herbs I did not recognize.

With each day I spent in his ethereal kingdom,

I felt the months and years fall away.

I grew younger each night and rose freshly each morning to a new kiss of youth.

A year and a day I spent there in the other world,

Living among its people and learning to cultivate these strange herbs.

At times I forgot the plight of my village and indeed forgot that there was any world outside of this one.

I knew love and friendship there and I was cherished,

But soon the cries of my people I heard upon the wind and I knew I must depart and continue my journey.

The people of the other world dressed me in fine clothing and wished me well.

The beautiful man who brought me thither,

A ferryman I'm sure of it now,

Blessed me before I embarked.

He gave me the gem you see here and she gestures to the amulet around her neck which glows with a rubious depth in the flickering fire.

This gem,

Imbued with a charm of protection,

Would also safeguard the youth his land had restored to me.

Should I ever remove it,

He said,

The years would swiftly return.

When I passed from the fairy realm I found that indeed no time had passed,

But I was young again and eager to bring my findings to the king's mage.

The lady's story hangs upon the warm tavern air like ice crystals melting on the skin.

You feel a mixture of emotions toward her,

A slow kindled tenderness and compassion,

A feeling of protectiveness and concern for a woman traveling alone,

Carrying such a valuable item in plain sight,

And also a sense of pity for you never saw age as a weakness,

But something to be admired.

There's a wisdom in the lady's eyes that's unmatched by her countenance.

Behind the stirring feelings also awakens a curiosity within you.

The lady spoke of strange herbs in the world beyond this one,

Plants that do not grow on the green earth.

You must speak with her further,

For perhaps there are plants in the fairy realm that produce even rarer and more exotic dyes than the ones you petal,

Colors only dreamt of and never seen under the sun.

A fairy man,

You say,

Comes the voice of one of the bards.

And was it the fairy country in which you passed the year,

Lady?

I cannot offer proof,

Save for the certainty in my heart,

The lady replies.

In that country,

Food was plentiful,

All were eternally young,

And illness and disease were unheard of.

I might have stayed all my life,

For I not called to a purpose in this world.

There is great interest among the guests as to the location of the doorway to the other world.

Even you harbor a longing to find the fairy country.

But the lady insists she could not recall the way.

A year in the company of the fae has blurred her memories of the path she walked.

And even if she could find that hazel grove once more,

The doors to other worlds rarely appear in the same place twice,

At least.

And the bards here agree.

That's what the old songs say.

In the wake of dragons,

Fairies,

And sorcerers,

At last you feel moved to tell your story of the road.

You feel struck by the same poetic spirit,

Just as you were clearly visited upon by some similar strangeness.

I have a tale to offer,

You say,

Your voice clearer and more musical than you remember.

I too encountered a marvel on my journey.

Val pours another round for those guests who wish it.

Your eyes focus on the hearth as you weave the tapestry of your tale.

It was midday when the road from the south brought me to the edge of a dark wood,

You begin.

I was prepared for this,

As those who have traveled to the castle before have brought back warnings of this place.

It is a vast forest of confused and entwined paths,

Earning it the name of Tanglewood at the utterance of its name.

Many of the guests around you nod or mutter sounds of familiarity with the wood.

Many a traveler has become lost in Tanglewood,

You continue,

And dangers lurk in the shadows there.

But I was unafraid when I entered.

I made,

Of the stories and songs of the wood,

A kind of protective shield.

I wrapped myself in the rumors,

For that was all they were,

And turned the dangers back upon themselves with every step.

But the wood was dark.

The afternoon sun strained to reach between the brambles,

And the path was winding and difficult to follow in the dim light.

My resolve began to fade and my invisible shield of songs and stories with it.

With every snap of a twig,

Or sound of a scurrying creature through the trees,

I became afraid.

I worried I would lose my way,

And be lost in Tanglewood forever.

But as I reached the densest part of the forest,

And the canopy closed in sealing out the last of the sunlight,

I perceived a silver glow straight ahead,

Through the trees.

It was bright as the harvest moon,

And almost seemed to sing,

To hum toward me.

Indeed,

It seemed to me that I could hear,

In that quivering song of the silver light,

My name.

Upon the lips of a gifted bard,

It called to me.

And so I followed it,

This gasp of light in a forest of darkness.

My eyes and feet found clarity in the path,

And the light guided me onward,

Through the thicket.

The faster I moved toward it,

The more it pulled away,

As though I were chasing a playful child.

Finally,

The traveling light slowed,

Allowing me to reach it.

And when I was close enough for my eyes to grasp the detail,

I discovered that at the center of the glow was an animal,

It was a white heart,

Generating this abundant light.

The creature was so beautiful,

An expression of such profound innocence,

That I nearly wept at the sight of it.

I was so spellbound by its loveliness that I did not at first notice its injury,

But there in its hind leg was an arrow.

The poor creature was wounded,

And yet it still led me safely through the wood,

With its light.

So I endeavored to help the creature.

I carefully removed the arrow and dressed its wound with a scrap of fabric from my pack.

I hoped that this small gesture would convey my gratitude to the heart.

Then,

To my surprise,

The wounded heart began to transform.

Before my eyes,

Its shining coat became skin,

Its forelegs stretched outward into arms,

And its body stood upright before me.

There was no more a heart,

But a child,

With moon-white hair and a clean,

White shift.

She looked no older than seven or eight,

But as I beheld her it seemed she flickered between multiple states,

As though superimposed here with the pale image of a grown woman,

And there with the spectral form of a crone.

Briefly she was all three at once,

But as my eyes grasped for the full picture of her,

She returned,

Solidly,

To the little child,

Barefoot in the dark forest.

She stayed by my side and walked with me till we reached the far edge of Tanglewood,

And there,

Before we parted,

She insisted I accept a gift.

Then she plucked three platinum hairs from her head and sealed them in a small glass jar which I now carry close to my heart.

It is like bottled starlight,

She said,

And I only need open the jar when I find myself lost in the dark.

Your gift will always light my way.

Even now,

As you conclude your tale,

You can feel the presence of the tiny jar in your breast pocket,

Your bottle of starlight.

With your words on the air and your story in the minds of others,

You feel a rush of amity,

Of fellowship.

It's as though by offering your tale,

Like a kind of communion,

You've formed a sacred bond of kinship with the people in this room.

You have exchanged memories and marvels,

Creating an intimate community of travelers and storytellers.

Many an hour passes before anyone is ready to retire to their rooms.

Guests change their seats and tables are pushed together,

Moving close to new friends who were perfect strangers not moments ago.

Hal and Mary beam at the new connections made under their roof before the night is over.

You have shared a toast with Brightbuckle and the Wise Woman,

And you have resolved to go forth together as a company to the King's Festival.

The storm is quieting outside the inn,

The rain only a gentle pitter-patter against the windows.

At last,

The ache and weariness of long travel overpowers the exhilaration of new friendships and discovery.

The harper in the corner is lazily picking at the strings,

Composing out loud a song of powerful hermits,

Fairy kings,

And magical hearts.

Dragons in the night sky,

Arranging to meet your party at first light to set off toward the castle.

You bid Hal and Mary a grateful goodnight and make your way up to the chamber,

One by one.

You extinguish the lamps.

You shuffle carefully to the bed,

Feeling for obstacles in the darkness.

There's a small window by the bed against which beats the last gasp of the evening's rain.

Grey clouds obscure the stars and the moon tonight,

But it's alright,

You think,

Settling into the soft embrace of the mattress and letting the night's darkness close around you like a blanket.

You've got starlight at your fingertips.

Take a moment to settle in,

Letting your body sink into the surface,

Feeling with every part of you the sensation of being where you are.

In this bed,

Or this chair,

In this room,

In this building,

In this city,

On this earth.

Breathe in the physical world and breathe out,

Relaxing deeper into it.

Send gratitude for the earth that holds you,

For her gifts,

And the delights of the physical world you move through each day.

And now let your consciousness expand to include that which you cannot directly see,

Hear,

Smell,

Taste,

Or feel.

Send the physical world into the realm of thoughts,

Dreams,

And emotions,

The realm of inspiration,

And the abstract.

Breathe for a few moments in this ethereal world.

If it helps,

Visualize it as a cloud of mist in which your mind hovers.

Give in this awareness and out,

Letting yourself relax,

Melting into the mists.

Now with your mind and body soft,

Visualize a thread,

A golden string.

You can manipulate it with your mind if you like,

Pulling it taut or coiling it up.

And now see that golden thread anchor to the physical world and stretch toward the ethereal one,

Building a steadfast connection.

Add another thread,

Anchor it to the earth,

And let it stretch upward into the other world.

Another thread,

And another.

Keep layering thread upon thread,

String upon string,

And let them reach in all directions until they must tangle with each other,

Becoming a tapestry,

A weaving,

A great,

Strong,

Interconnected web,

Connecting all things,

All minds,

All dreams to each other.

Feel how you resonate within this golden web of life,

Consciousness,

And connection,

How you are part of this vast,

Interlaced community.

You are vital to it,

And you are nurtured by it.

Breathe with the threads,

The individual and the collective,

Connecting thought,

Action,

Dream,

And deed,

Connecting you to everything in this world and the next.

Reviews

I love the way it connects so many other stories together . I can't wait for more.

Thanks. It helped a lot. I’ve found your stories on YouTube and liked them. I like that the exercise come after the story when one is more relaxed but still awake.

I didn’t make it to the end! Thank you 🙏

Beautiful story along with a beautiful voice. Thank you for sharing your experience

Nice distraction from my mind. Got two naps out of the one clip

So nourishing to my magical fantasy loving heart! And the meditation at the end is deeply comforting. 500 stars! 🌟

Worked like a charm.

The quality of Laurel’s voice helps me relax and fall asleep every time.

My all time favorite of your stories. Your creativity and great combination of magical story and soothing sleep exercise (if I get that far)are unmatched! I enjoy listening and relaxing before drifting off to a great sleep. Thank you

Charming story that wrapped up my overbusy mind and lulled me to sleep. This is a great series.

I’ve listened to, and enjoyed, this story many times. I hope you will do a follow up to it! I’m curious if the missing heir to the throne turns up in time and who it will be!

I have listened to both, but didn’t put the two together. Now I’m really looking forward to what comes next!

I love your stories! I must admit that I listen while working too so I can hear the ending. Your voice and writing are wonderful. Thank you for all you do!
🧘‍♂️🗝🌙

I love this one. I’ve listened to it at least 10 times, and I don’t know what the second half is about because I’m always a snooze in my bed before we get there!

My favorite sleep story. Played it 5 times, still an amazing story every time.

Satisfying like one of Mary’s pies. A cozy stopover before Dreamland.

Loved this! Does it have anything to do with your earlier story, The Dragon Rider?

love how you tell this story! just like I am there!

.

This is a beautiful tale of friendship and kindness, and it moved me in a way that no one exept me will ever understand. Tales By Tavern Fire seems to spread a chill of community and comfort and compassion down my spine, and make me believe in a future. This is a wonderfully story spoken by a wonderful voice. Every night I go to bed and listen to this meditation and fall asleep before it ends. Thank you so much Lorel for telling this fantastic story to me and all your other listeners.

Fantastic sleep story. Great guided meditation at the end.

I have listened many times now. I may have to start off in the middle so that I can hear the end.😴 LOL
Thank you for your sleep inducing bedtime 🌙 tales. Warmest Blessings 💖