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When I was a child, I traipsed after Jawbone wherever he
went. I learned his stories, his little vocal tricks, the way he
moved his body at the climax of a tale. He took me under
his wing and taught me still more. Jawbone was more than
a teacher, he was a father to me - a father who told bedtime
stories from morning till night. But I was never as good as
he was, and no one wanted to listen to me when Jawbone
Jekson could be called upon to tell his tales. Despite
everything I had learned, I was unneeded, unwanted,
useless.
It was clearly time for me to go off on my own, but I was
afraid to leave. What if no one listened?
Late one night, Jawbone walked with me along the Patch
River and - what else? - he told me a story. In his little tale I
became a hero, a myth, a storyteller whose name lasted
through the ages. As I listened, I could see myself standing
high on a hill, the sun shining down on me, as hundreds -
no, thousands - of people gathered below to hear my words.
Despite my terrible fears, I left my home and sailed into
the unknown on a wispy cloud of Jawbone's words. Such
was his story telling power.
I traveled across Krynn, telling my own tales in little
villages and towns with barely a tear being shed or a laugh
being loosed
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