He was the talk of the town, something of a celebrity storyteller. Packing into bars on humid nights, the audience may very well have charmed itself in advance. The way he spoke, his words sent shivers down spines. He directed his audience through emotion after emotion, love, hate, anguish, unrequited passion, dashed dreams and more. Every song was a tragedy for the effect on the more emotional members of the crowd.
Sweat glistened on every person, and tears streamed down most faces as the emotions released themselves without request down faces. Men who weren’t moved were moved to understand the connection between speaker and listener. A few women looked faint as the speaker glanced their way during his oration. He reached out and wiped away tear after tear of women in the audience making clumsy jokes that evoked wonderful smiles on each.
He drank their most watered down beer without complaint. He challenged the ruder drunks to entertaining spectacle duels in which he handily disarmed every opponent and offered his own silken kerchief to each in turn so that they could wipe of the dirt and sweat of their defeat. With an arm around former foe and random stranger, he moved through the night without a care.
The night ended as it always did. Though the village was in a permanent drought burdened desert, he always seemed to lead the rain. So each evening at the close of the bars, he would make a spectacle of summoning the waters from the heavens. The rain never fell right away. Sometime after his head landed on a pillow next to a radiantly dazed beauty, the drops would begin. The sky would open up and a flood would come straight down filling reservoirs and giving thirsty desert plants renewed hope.
Sometimes the women he bedded wouldn’t even notice when he left. Sometimes, he expressed his appreciation for their company one more time before heading on. Typically he left a poem, handwritten and original praising her beauty, encouraging her spirit, and thanking her charity, nailing the key emotions in each woman each time. With a smile on his face as he imagined her expression and the pleasant emotional tears running down her face, he pulled his barely serviceable hat down to block out the sun and made his way to the next town.
If the walk grew too hot, dark storm clouds would seem to follow him. If he grew too weary, he’d sleep in a fog. If he grew thirsty, he’d lift his travel cup and the most particularly sized downpour would fill it once more. It was a good life, the only one the Waterlord might have wished for.