The storyteller, a quizzical man with a red nose, fifty years of age, lives in a shanty house in a quiet corner of the market. Inside is a warm room with a fireplace. Here, in comfortable chair in front of the fireplace, the storyteller rewrites the book of stories into a new one, adding a story of his own. Often at night, when his children have gone to sleep, you can see him through the stained little windows sitting in his chair with his book, talking to his bewildered dog - the grey dog looking at him intently and blinking.
To hear him read from the book of stories, tales full of dragons and epic wars and gnomes in deep woods, is like seeing the tale unspun around you, as if it were all real.
The storyteller often wanders through the city, looking for interesting stories and people. Never interfering, always, looking, thinking, making notes.