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SUMMARY: A story about scary bedtime stories!

"A'right, gather 'round little ones. Gather 'round an' hear the tale of the dreaded riverman."

Pytr, patron of the Fighting Sturgeon Inn in the cozy little hamlet of Poisson, settled his ample bulk into a rickety old chair near the fireplace of the building's common room. Waiting for the creaks and protests of the overburdened wood to subside, he took a hearty swig of his spiced mead and screwed his face up into the ghastly visage he used to impress the village children. The ring of small faces gazing up at him from the floor adopted a unanimous look of impressed awe, though many of the children secretly joked that old Pytr looked more like a walrus or a fat seal than one of the ghouls from his horror stories.

"Right then, you all stop those flappin' lips an' just listen. You hear that? You all know what's makin' that noise, that's the Wael Mauldon. That river's been here since my great gran'pappy's gran'pappy an' his kin settled this village for us all to grow up and live in."

Pytr stopped to take another swallow of drink. By this late hour he was already well into his sixth or seventh flagon of the strong draft, and the children were made keenly aware of this by the way he slumped in his chair, one hand hanging limp against the edge of the seat.

"Well, you may all know 'bout the Wael Mauldon, but I'd wager a king's mark none of you's heard the story of the riverman."

Pytr scanned the faces of his young audience, scowling and growling, trying his best to put a fright into the children. When not one of them so much as blinked he hastily continued with his story.

"Ahem, well, the tale begins back with them forefathers. You see, back then there was no one livin' in these parts 'cept an old hermit out near Knucklehead bay, where the river starts. Kept himself locked up in a great tower and spent all his days casting magics. Didn't take too kindly to our ancestors moving in neither. When they'd try an' build a hut the sorcerer'd call up some evil wind to blow it back down again, or when they went out in boats to fish he'd summon a monster wave to toss the rafts an' spill the men into the water."

Now that Ptyr had ceased his bogeyman impressions and started the story, the children perked up where they sat and payed close attention. This was a story they had never been told before, and a new story was always a source of excitement among them.

"'Course, them men couldn't let the old wizard go on attackin' them when they was just tryin' to find a place to live. So, one dark night they all decided to march on his tower with torches and such, to try and convince him to leave. They marched for hours through the forest to get there, all the while fightin' the bats and belly-snakes the sorcerer was sendin' their way to stop them, but snakes and bats didn't stop my great, great, great gran'pappy from gettin' there. He an' his men, when they finally reached the place and saw it with their very own eyes well, many among 'em decided to turn back. Wizards towers are dark places kids, an' I'd be one of the one's goin' home too."

Now the children were really excited.