The tavern was hot and musty; rife with the heat and smell of the many unwashed bodies packed together. The clink of cups and swigging of cheap beer rose above the tumultuous din, strangely muffled by the flurry going on outside. 

The heavy, ironbound door at the front of the tavern banged open, revealing a tall, dark figure, his cloak gently fluttering in the snow flurry beyond. Conversations ground to a stop, and the din quickly fell to manageable levels with everyone trying to get a glance at the cloaked figure. 

Elegantly, the man closed the door, whilst shuffling his expensive leather boots on the floor to clear the slush off them. He turned around, to see the tavern silently staring him down, like a mole looking out from its burrow, caught in the light of the world beyond. A deep chuckle sounded, and the figure threw off his hood, revealing a young, roguishly handsome face, all brown hair and golden eyes. 

The tavern was silent before bursting into feverish song and celebration. For the storyteller arrived, all swirling cloak and lordly bearing. He strode in, shaking hands and rubbing shoulders with weary farmers and wealthy merchants alike. 

And so he got up to the stage and spoke, his rich scarlet cloak draping over his lean body like a river of blood. Someone pressed a chipped mug into his hands, for which he gave an ostentatious, exaggerated bow. He held up a ring-encrusted hand, gesturing for silence. And with a sip of mead from his cup, he started talking. 

“My tale begins in a land of ice and snow - a most troubling tale of winters woe.”

His voice was rich and sonorous, the deep timbre of an experienced orator. The crowd pressed closer.