“Do you want to listen to a tragedy?” asked the stranger.
Vaisampiya, a chronicler, had been in Dvarka for the last 65 days and he had never met someone like the stranger until now. He thought his night would be an ordinary one. He would come to the tavern. Drink his madira. Listen to the tales of the seamen, the farmers and the drunkards. And go back to his inn and call it a night.
But as he had received his madira and he was about to sip it, the stranger arrived. He had a cowl over him and his face was in the shadows. He had a voice as deep and dark as possible. And his nose popped out from the shade, showing the scars that it carried.
“Listening to tales is my hobby.”
“And churning them out with morals is your occupation.” The stranger added.
Oh well, Vaisampiya was a proud man. He liked his choice of career. He would travel the world. Listen to stories and tell it to others orally. He knew about everyone and everything. Except for Dvarka. That was an island nation which was shrouded in mystery; a nation that built its reputations of being invincible and indestructible by having the best…
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