The end of a story always left her feeling comforted, as though she'd relived herself of the burden of carrying the torch alone, as though with every ember passed, she'd nursed that fire inside herself a little more. Still, myth keeping was not a one mare job. It was each one's responsibility and right to bear the stories of their ancestors, igniting the flames and passing the light. Storytelling, in Cheska's culture, was a way to honor parents and friends and children as well as those far away gods. A story was an offensive against complacency, a silver thread linking past to present. A story was divine, and the right to tell it was a privilege. This was her purpose, and to see the eyes fixed on her as she finished, she knew that this was magic, deep and ancient. And she was pleased.

She glimpsed a new face behind a tree not so far away as she was finishing, but she dared not compromise the pretty pegasus's anonymity. Gods knew, she would loathe such insensitivity if she was subjected to it. Rather, she tried to catch the unfamiliar eye, a quiet thank you for her presence and an invitation, should she wish to join them.

The first commentary burst out of a far colt, shattering the silence. He'd gathered something completely different from the tale, but she didn't worry over it. In fact, she let them debate among themselves without interference, nodding in agreement or humming thoughtfully. She didn't correct any commentary to better suit her moral. If anything, she was delighted that they were at least thinking. No matter how many foals she met, she'd be forever awed by their limitless imaginations and unquenchable curiosity. These were the things she loved most dearly about children, and why she still often found them the best audience. Adults had seen the limits of reality, all the hard edges and barriers of possibility, and no longer challenged them. She still found a thrill when her inner child drove her to push the walls of the "cold, hard truth" to find out if they really were as firm as convention dictated. Sometimes those apparent barriers would stretch, revealing that life could be just a little bigger than they thought. A little bit more.

She paused briefly for little Tempe. "I suspect that's a wise decision, miss Tempe," she agreed, ears flopping cheerfully. She let the bustle die down briefly before she addressed the questions. "I tell stories whenever I can, as oft as I can. In my home, stories are... Well..." Here, she paused, exaggerating as she screwed up her face in thought. "Picture a prayer you make to the gods. It comes out of your heart and it flutters up to them like a little butterfly. But a story for the gods? That's like an arrow, and you stretch it back and fire that prayer with extreme prejudice. Not to mention... they're a lot of fun." She grinned, snorting a little laugh at the assembly. "I heard that one from a dear friend, and I hope someday you'll pass it to a friend of yours. Kind of Moon God passed on Raven's colors to- Oh. Let's save that one for next time."


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