The framed tale is, in my opinion, one of the most natural ways to tell a story. If you think of it, the conceit of the frame-less story is actually the odd way of doing things. Without the frame, how do you know the context for a story?

Anger can keep you warm at night, and wounded pride can spur a man to wondrous things.

It was wise enough to know itself, and brave enough to be itself, and wild enough to change itself while somehow staying altogether true.

But how awful would that be? How terrible to live surrounded by the stark, sharp, hollowness of things that simply were enough?

Everyone knew what he was thinking. Certainly there were demons in the world. But they were like Tehlu’s angels. They were like heroes and kings. They belonged in stories. They belonged out there. Taborlin the Great called up fire and lightning to destroy demons. Tehlu broke them in his hands and sent them howling into the nameless void. Your childhood friend didn’t stomp one to death on the road to Baedn-Bryt. It was ridiculous.

My shrug was so nonchalant it would make a cat jealous

That is how heavy a secret can become. It can make blood flow easier than ink.