The Storyteller, Book one CLOSE See OOC section

Ooc: I would like to start with a request. If this request is not heeded/met/followed, I am afraid I will have to stop this trend.

The storyteller’s identity is secret, and shall remain as such. No one should be able to figure out who it is. The storyteller will wear a disguise. Should anyone figure it out, my character will no longer visit to tell stories. I ask that you respect this privacy, and do not godmode to figure it out. Theories can be made, however there will never should be any concrete evidence. 

Please note the stories being told are not my own work. Writers will be credited in post. The character is a storyteller not a writer. I take no credit for the story being told, however the post about my character is my own work. (I promise it makes more sense when you start reading)

Interaction with the storyteller is encouraged, however please do not attempt to interrupt the story itself. 

Admins, Mods, Professors, exc.,
Should there be any issue with the post, please owl me so I can fix it ASAP

Now onto the fun stuff, rant over.

It was a cold day.
Many students were inside, and in turn, huddled up with a good book by a fire. However there was someone who stood out. 
There was a figure sitting by the fire, reading not from a book, but from memory. 
He was what most muggles would call a storyteller. And that was the name he was given, and known by.
A few children gathered to listen to his tale, that seemed to be purely from memory. 
He clearly wasn’t an adult, though some speculated he could be, as he always sat in a wheelchair.
Some speculated it was a professor, with how calmly and clearly he spoke.
Though most speculated it was a student, as it seemed like the most likely option. 
It wasn’t clear how old he was exactly, as he often wore a mask, and layers of blankets, which hid his form, as well as the fact that his voice was always off in some sense, though always male, and rich, like a singer’s voice. 
He was always there at the very least once a day.
And it became sort of a ritual for some to come and listen to his stories.
As the listener grew closer, they would be able to hear him begin his tale.

“Today I have a story for you from a muggle named Margaret Rogerson. 
And the story is called, An Enchantment of Ravens.”

Some days he skipped the title entirely, though he always mentioned the author.

“Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? It’s where all good stories begin.”

He paused for just a moment, before beginning the tale. 

“My parlor smelled of linseed oil and a spike of lavender, and a dab of lead tin yellow glistened on my canvas. I had nearly perfected the colour of Gadfly’s silk jacket.
The trick with Gadfly was persuading him to wear the same clothes every session. Oil paint needs days to dry between layers, and he had trouble understanding I couldn’t just swap his entire outfit for another he liked better. He was astonishingly vain even by fair folk standards, which is like saying a pond is unusually wet, or a bear surprisingly hairy. All in all, it was a disarming quality for a creature who could murder me without rescheduling his tea. 
‘I might have some silver embroidery done about the wrists,’ he said. ‘What do you think? You could add that, couldn’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And if I chose a different cravat...’ 
Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. Outwardly, my face ached with the polite smile I’d maintain for the past two and a half hours. Rudeness was not an affordable mistake. ‘I could alter your cravat, as long as it’s more or less the same size, but I’d need another session to finish it.’
‘You are truly a wonder. Much better than the previous portrait artist—that fellow we had the other day. What was his name? Sebastian Manywarts? Oh, I didn’t like him, he always smelled a bit strange.’
It took me a moment to realise Gadfly was referring to Silas Merryweather, a master of the Craft who had died over three hundred years ago. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘What a thoughtful compliment.’
‘How engaging it is to see the Craft change over time.’ Barely listening, he selected one if the cakes from the tray beside the settee. He didn’t eat it immediately, but rather sat staring at it, as an entomologist might have discovered a beetle with it’s head on backwards. ‘One thinks one has seen the best humans have to offer, and suddenly there is a new method of glazing china, or these fantastic little cakes with lemon curd inside.’
By now I was used to the fair folk mannerisms. I didn’t look away from his left sleeve, and kept dabbing on the silk’s glossy yellow shine. However, I remembered a time in which the fair folk’s behaviour had unsettled me. They moved different than humans: smoothly, precisely, with a particular stiffness to their posture, and never put so much of a finger out of place. They could remain still for hours without blinking, or they could move with such fearsome swiftness as to be upon you before you could even gasp in surprise.”

And there the storyteller paused, thinking for a moment before declaring his usual closer,

“That is all for today. Thank you for listening.”