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Our story begins on a cold and dreary Tuesday morning. The sun had just begun to rise, its orange rays licking the horizon as it journeyed upwards. Birds sang their greetings and the foxes bid their adieu. All was as it should in the land of East Meadow.
Clitter-Clack! Bang! Cathack!
The clatter of rusted steel jostled the forest into a disturbed frenzy. Each and every creature and critter scurried and scampered, darted and dashed, flittered and fluttered in every which direction as our hero clambered over the hill.
He rode atop his steed, swaying back and forth with each step the beast took. His stomach grumbled and his face had ripened to a sickly green; but he pushed his mount forward, his mess of armor clattering behind him.
And why was this man so sick to his stomach, you ask? Could it be that his meal had soured? Possibly. Maybe he had come down with a dreadful case of the flu? Not likely. The truth of the matter is our young hero was drunk as a skunk and sick from the bumpy ride he had embarked on.
But drunk on a Tuesday? How can a man be drunk on a Tuesday? Isn’t it too early in the week to drink?
And to that, I must say, you ask too many questions. It’s a fairy tale. What did you expect? But I will oblige, dear reader, and answer this final question.
There are many reasons why a man, such as our hero, would be so plastered in the middle of the week. He could have turned to the pint to calm his nerves; for heroing is quite the stressful career. He might have tipped the bottle back as a means for celebration; for finding a job, questing or not, is fairly difficult in such a trying economy. Or, quite possibly, he glugged away to forget the horrors of Monday; and that, my friend, sounds like a very fine reason to me. But it was for neither of these reasons, I’m afraid. Our hero was drunk as a skunk in the morn of a Tuesday simply because he was burnt out.
Our young hero, as I’m sure you have come to expect, was a knight. But his armor wasn’t shiny and he was far from your idea of what a hero should be. He was four foot eleven. Too tall for a dwarf and too short for a man. He was as stout as a teapot with curves that would bring a blush to most women’s faces. His arms were pudgy in the middle and stringy on the ends. To make matters worse, he even had the strength of a schoolgirl; if said girl had broken both of her arms and was forced to bear a crutch. No, dear reader, this man was far from what you’d expect a typical knight to be.
And as you can expect, he was terrible at being one. Most knights are fairly successful in their career; having saved at least one princess in their time. And if they failed, they typically had the honor of being killed off in the process. But what makes our hero so different is that he miserably fails at both of these tasks. Not once has he saved a princess and not once has he perished in the attempt.
So our hero drank. And he drank. And he drank some more. And before he knew it, Monday had passed and Tuesday began. So he mounted his steed and began his assignment.
With his arm held firm against his aching belly, he led his mount over the hill and through the forest. They journeyed Eastward, trotting along the narrow path, making much more racket than any small man should make. It wasn’t long before our unlikely hero cleared the dense foliage and clambered onto the cobbled bridge marking the entrance to Belmouth.
The cool morning breeze came to an eerie standstill as the knight trotted down the brick roads of the abandoned shell of what used to be a sprawling city. By the time they reached the ruined fortress at the city’s center, our hero’s stomach had calmed and the light pink hue returned to his face.
Our hero leapt from the mount’s back, taking a moment to steady his wobbly legs before leading his steed to a hollowed oak in the middle of the courtyard. He fastened the reins securely around the trunk, doubling over the knot three times before he was satisfied. He then stretched the hunch from his tiny spine before unpacking his gear.
He slung a thin layer of chain mail over his torso and fastened a dented cuirass, two sizes too big, over his chest. He then reached for his spaulder, strapping it neatly over his left shoulder. A frown formed on his pudgy little face as he realized he had forgotten to bring the pair. He shook the frown away, reassuring himself he wouldn’t need it. How often does an assailant target the shoulders? It couldn’t be that often.
The knight then slipped his hands into a pair of rusted gauntlets before tightening the laces of his boots. He decided to skip the greaves and corset, his knees already buckling from the combined weight of the armor. Our hero then threw on a massive helmet that swallowed the man’s head and wobbled about.
“Let’s do this,” he sighed before taking in the sight of the crumbling fortress and contemplating his strategy. His gaze fell on a large hole in the Eastern wall. An easy entrance, he decided, drawing his rusted blade from its scabbard and unlatching a small shield from the saddle before scurrying inside.
The hole led to the larder. The dank stench of spoiled food filled the knight’s nostrils, causing the man to gag from the pungent air. He puffed out his cheeks and scrunched up his nose before trudging on, darting with haste through the foul room. He pushed his way through to the kitchen and out into the dining hall before he allowed his lungs to breathe again. Relieved that the repulsive smell had passed, he took a moment to rest, savoring the fresh air of the hall of old.
He strolled leisurely through the room, admiring the various trinkets that lay strewn about: goblets that were once polished to a shine were now covered with a green film; vases that once held bundles of exotic petals now lay wilted and dead; stained glass windows that once filled the room with brilliant colors had now filled with cracks and caked in grime. But it was the large red tapestry adorning the West wall that captured the man’s attention.
His thin lips curled into a grin as he studied the intricate patterns weaved into the cloth, recognizing the tale it depicted. There, the Great King Geoffrey, stood in all his glory, holding the severed head of the Two-horned Barghest of Joffenshire. “Ironic,” the knight chuckled as he thought of his task at hand.
Our hero continued down the hall, ducking and weaving through the debris that littered the fortress. A light rumble stopped the knight in his trek. The man stood still, listening carefully, intent on finding the source. Another rumble filled the hall once more; followed by a light breeze of air, escaping from the room next door. The knight crept onward, pushing himself to the side of the corridor before peering into the neighboring room. There it was: the two-headed dragon of Belmouth.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
