It was raining.
They gathered around her, huddling closer, hoping to catch a glace at her eyes, hoping she could warm them up with her stories. Most of them had no home. At least not one they could go back to. She sat on a log and started speaking, almost in a whisper. All other chatter stopped and they turned to her, hoping for safety and warmth, something stories rarely provide. She started with a small town burning the raiders sweeping through and setting each house on fire in turn. No one was to be left alive. A beginning many of them related to. As she spoke, the fire in her eyes gleamed and licked at each member of the audience drying them off and the rain turned to steam above them. One child started to cryas the sound of her voice grew rising above the noise of her flames.

Soon enough it died down, as the story moved on and the protagonist ran through the dark and the wind, into the heart of trouble and through it, the audience experienced her surroundings through the storyteller’s eyes.