I used to think death was a story best left untold. Not avoided entirely, no Storyteller can truly avoid death, but handled the way one handles a sleeping bear in the corner of the room: acknowledged quietly, circled carefully, never touched, not to be hugged (I add this last one to let my wife know I do listen). I’ve told tales for years where death was a symbol, a plot device, a shadow passing over the hill before the hero’s return. It was never the hearth fire at the centr

If you’ve ever stepped through the gates of a Renaissance or Medieval Faire, you know the sensory overload: the smell of roasted nuts, the clashing of wooden swords, and the rhythmic jingle of bells on a jester’s cap. But amidst the chaos, a quieter, more ancient magic is happening—often under a canvas tent or beneath the shade of an oak tree (or, in some cases, the grand stage also known as the grass by the side of the thoroughfare). There you will find the Storyteller. The