"She was a Maid," the Storyteller said, "a Maid such as a man would not see again his whole life."
The people sat close, despite the heat of the fire, to hear.
"Where did she come from, this Maid?" asked one of the young men, a boy too young to have heard all the story, but old enough to wish to know of maids.
The Storyteller nodded at the boy. "They say she was of the Behroozi, a people of the River."
He gestured at the encampment around him. "It was late in the evening, an evening such as this, with the nights lengthening."
And so the Storyteller began his tale.
Magdar, the son of the Tribe's Elder, their name now lost to time, had returned home. His closest warriors were with him. Twenty of the strongest, the bravest, sworn to him.
One of them was Phonzy. Phonzy of the River, as he became known.
Phonzy, son of Feddar, son of Dar. Thon son of Erith, daughter of Raven. Thus was Phonzy noble from both his father's and his mother's line.
This Phonzy, and Magdar in front of him, stood in the center of the throng, his dark hair swept back from his fierce eyes, the grime of battle clinging to his strong arms.
"This was ill-done, Magdar," he said, and silence fell over all who heard.
Magdar reached for the long-handled sword at his hip, but his father stayed his hand.
"Harsh words," the Elder said, "harsh words from he who is as my son these long years of fostering." He gestured to Magdar. "Who is as a brother to my own son, Magdar."
Thon nodded at him who had fostered him.
"Harsh words, yes," Phonzy said. "Harsh words, but true."
The young men, Magdar's warriors, stirred. Magdar's hand fell to the hilt of his blade. The Maid stood off to the side between two warriors, watching all from wide-spaced green eyes.
She did not stir.
"Speak," the Elder commanded.
