The Story of Legends

Imagine for me now...

...the scene we see here today. An old human man sits close to a roaring fire, smoking pipe tobacco whilst cradling a stale beer. He is seemingly small and unassuming, clothes worn and frayed at the seams, with a gnarled walking stick at the side of his chair. His grey moustache curls at the corners, almost meeting greasy muttonchops. His hair is long and unkempt, almost hidden under a wide-brimmed hat.
A young bespectacled Tiefling approaches him, a fine leather satchel strung over one shoulder. He looks out of place in this run-down tavern, the locals at the bar eye his tailored clothes and clean skin, writing him off as harmless even as they turn back to their drinks, throwing the occasional sideways glance at the pair, obviously eavesdropping.
Around him the residents of Jaxville go on with their discussions, their faces and eyes are tired and dull as if every mote of joy had been lost to times gone by. They are for the most part young in body if not in outlook, though the lines on their faces indicate how each has grown old before their time.
The young man pauses a moment, seemingly embarrassed at the attention, before he adjusts his glasses and clears his throat:
“Ahem, Greetings Mr Jackson, I am Barnabus Potts - I believe you are expecting me.” He holds his hand out expectantly towards his aged counterpart. It hangs uneasily for a minute before slowly dropping, unacknowledged.
The old man’s focus is still fastened on the fire, his iris’ shining black in the light. The Tiefling waits a moment before reaching out as if to gently grasp the other man’s shoulder.
His head turns suddenly making the younger man jump in surprise.
“Put that thing on me and you lose it boy. Ain’t never a good idea to surprise a blind man – your mother ain’t teach you no manners?”
The Tiefling huffs as he brings his hand tightly back to his chest. He takes a moment to straighten his waistcoat and trousers in annoyance before replying. “Yes well, they did tell me you were blind, though I have to wonder if you’re deaf as well or just plain rude? Why I…”
He is interrupted then by dry laughter, an odd sound from lips used to being pulled tight in a frown.
Finally, the old man turns to him. “You’re alright kid, I’ll give you that much, but I can’t be doin with all this ‘Mr. Jackson’ shit. Mr. Jackson was my asshole father, I’m Hank, nuthin more, nuthin less ya hear me?”
The Tiefling nods, before realising Hank can’t see him. “Got it Hank.”
Hank smiles, seemingly pleased before his brow creases warily. “Now, howsabout you tell me why you’ve come all this way to a spitbucket town in the arse-end of nowhere, just to talk to little old me? Got a note a few weeks ago sayin some city big-shot was sending his ‘aide’ up for a chat.”
Barnabus, allows himself a wry grin as he sits down in the chair opposite, cautiously pulling a wodge of creased parchment and a well-used quill from his satchel. He looks eager and intrigued, as flashes of childish curiosity play across his face.
“They say that you’ve been telling one hell of a tall-story about this place. About a group of strangers who came here to make their fortune and left as legends. My employer wants to be the first to publish it, but everyone tells it differently back in Verde. I’ve come to get it from the horse’s mouth so to speak.” He sits forward hopefully, quill grasped tightly between clawed fingers.
Hank smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet his cool black eyes. “That I get son, but I’m a poor blind man – what’s in it for me boy?”
Barnabus barely stops himself from rolling his eyes and settles for a knowing smile before reaching down into his satchel and pulling out a large purse full of coins, and placing it down on the table in front of the old man.
Now they definitely have the regulars’ attention as Hank quickly swipes it up, depositing it in the inside pocket of his coat. “That story huh, well it all began many years ago when a carriage full of peculiars got into some shit on the road into this here town…”