Before Sarin Searched, So Did He...

Caderyn looked at the gypsy with open scepticism. Him, a great mage? That was never going to happen. He had no magic - his parents had sent him to be tested when he was only little, and there hadn't even been enough of a spark to light tinder. No, the fortune-teller must be mistaken, and that did throw the rest of her information into a more credulous position.
"Thank you," he said politely, for he'd been raised to be polite.
"You'll see," she replied cryptically as he left the dimly-lit tent, blinking in the harsh sunlight outside.
Caderyn stuck his hands deep into his pockets, feeling for the charms and trinkets he always kept there. For protection, and clarity of thought, and increased luck. That was another thing his parents had passed onto him, a kind of token belief in the supernatural arts and the power of little spells to turn the balance of fate in a positive way. If he ever thought about it deeply the whole affair seemed a little foolish, but he tended to avoid deep thought because it invariably led to headaches.
The road from the gypsy camp but to town was a long one, and if he dallied much longer he'd end up walking in the dark, but Caderyn wasn't terribly concerned. The opportunity to speak with storytellers of another culture was a temptation he could not resist, and they seemed like a friendly enough group of people. After a few enquiries he was directed to a campfire where a pot bubbled with an unknown, deliciously scented liquid. A stout woman stirred its contents with a wooden spoon, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the gaggle of children running around the camp. By her side sat a woman older than he'd imagined a person could ever be, hunched over a bowl of pea-pods.
"Could I help you with that, Grandmother?" He asked respectfully, ignoring the snort of laughter from the cook. The old lady looked up at him with icy grey eyes, gnarled fingers never ceasing in their work.
"That depends on your motives," she replied sharply, with a voice like a cutting winter wind. She may have been old, Caderyn thought, but she was not soft in the least.
"I wish only to help, and perhaps talk a little."
After a moment the woman shrugged, and handed him the bowl.
"Get to it." She paused, then added, "The talking will depend on the topic you intend to bring up."
Caderyn sat cross-legged by her side, settling easily into the task. He hadn't shelled peas in a long time, but when he was younger his mother had often allowed him to help her in the kitchen with such things. After a little while he got into a rhythm, and it was only then that he began to speak.
"I have heard much praise of your people, and their stories," he said, carefully watching her expression without looking directly at her. "It is said they are many, and of a quality not often found in the city."
"Of course," she snapped. "We have no tame tales to wave about as if we own them. Our stories are lent to us by the earth and the sky, and we pass them along with care and respect."
"Are they not changed with time?" He asked, noting her frown. "All things change as they are passed along. Each teller has their own way, their own words, their own embellishments that they bring."