The Kingdom hath been in uproar of late following the burning at the stake of what some people claim were legally-practicing witches operating under the auspices of The King. Some even claim many of those that were incinerated were not witches at all.

But I have the utmost faith in our brave witch hunters, those valiant men who risk their lives e’ery day to keep the Kingdom free from dark magick. They must defend themselves from all manner of spells, and sorcery, and confounding potions, often making split second decisions about where and when to rouse an angry mob of villagers, abduct an accuséd witch from her home, and throw her onto a pre-prepared pyre. Yea, I trust that any such witch-burnings were performed strictly in self-defence.

If thou dost question our witch hunters’ judgment, perhaps thou art a witch as well!

‘Tis true that the burnings have been relentless — the smoke from their wretched witch souls hath been rising to the heavens round the sundial from every towne square. But I shall be the first to attest that every one of these burnings hath been justified; every crone put to the torch hath been a verified undocumented, illegal witch, or was otherwise an enchantress obstructing witch-hunting operations.

Sure, our witch hunters occasionally flay and roast the flesh of a legally-sanctioned sorceress, or they heave a young lass with latent magickal potential into a vat of boiling tallow. But even if ‘tis not apparent to thee that the witch hunters were acting in self-defence, thou cannot see the subtle mind tricks the witch was playing all the while. Per witch-hunting regulations, subtle mind tricks against a witch hunter beeth a capital offence.

Whomst art thou to say whether a peasant girl reaching into her tunic was grabbing for a bite of turnip, or for an accurséd staff with which to cast spells upon thee and drive thy soul into the nether realm?

Hast thou ever been attacked by a lady slowly riding her steed along the road in thy general direction, in a clear attempt to stomp thy bones into dust to mix into one of her witch cauldrons?

Well, I have, and it is terrifying.

What is a “witch” anywise? Some might argue — correctly, in my professional opinion — the definition includes all manner of catty womynfolk, magickal or otherwise. She has warts? WITCH. She sinks in water? WITCH. She floats in water? WITCH. She refuses to go into water because of the obvious futility of attempting to pass the sink-or-float test? DEFINITELY A WITCH.

Let’s leave it to the witch hunters to determine who is worthy of being burned alive or not.

Some may argue that not all witches are evil. Most are just regular wenches with families and jobbes, they say, who happen to enjoy carousing in the woods at night with goat-headed men. Thou mayest even sympathize with the many witch-children and witch-babies that are cast into the flame. Thou mayest say, “But they are young. The darkness hath not yet arisen in them.”

To that I say, “We are just doing our jobbes. There are witches to be burned, and someone hath to do it.”

‘Tis fiery work, but these witches are not going to burn themselves.

The law is clear on the matter: If thou art a witch, thou shalt be burned at the stake. And if thou wast burned at the stake, thou must have been a witch.

So let us stop rioting in the streets o’er a couple edge cases where a few people may or may not have been burned at random just to meet the fortnightly witch quota. Let us instead celebrate the heroic men o’ the torch who are out there keeping our Kingdom witch-free.

Better yet, accuse thy neighbour of witchcraft and earn a hefty reward!1

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His Majesty The King hath decreed that, effective immediately, all commoners shall return to their orifices any objects that had previously been removed.

“Hear ye! Hear ye! All peasants, serfs, and other common riff-raff shall henceforth return any and all spikes, spades, fists, and glaives which had heretofore been de-orificed back to their allotted bodily openings,” spake the town crier during his morning crying. “All orifices shall be thoroughly inspected for compliance.”

This Return-to-Orifice (RTO) policy cometh as a shock to those who have toiled for years without items shoved up their meatuses. Many doth argue they are more productive without large articles sticking out of every hole.

“My whole life I had worked with a bundle of turnips up my ænus. I thought that was normal,” spake local plowman John Plowmanson. “But when I was first allowed to remove said bundle some years agone, I was instantly able to plow harder and longer hours without collapsing from the severe pain in my bowels. I don’t think I could go back to that. Not to mention the strain RTO put on my family and their orifices.”

Prior to the plague, ‘twas standard throughout the Kingdom for labourers to work all day with their orifices stuffed with hay, spoons, or whatever else happened to be lying around the fief. But the plague years brought a shift in work habits. Many lords magnanimously allowed their vassals to remove these objects for fear that sharing objects amongst orifices would spread the plague. This trend hath reversed, however, with liegelords gradually introducing larger and larger commodities back into their subjects’ orifices in recent years.

“‘Tis not merely about productivity. ‘Tis about our fief’s culture, and bringing people together,” spake Lord Bulwark, whose fief was amongst the first to adopt a strict RTO policy. “Our team doth vibe so much better when everyone below the rank of knight hath their orifice filled to the brim.”

Proponents of RTO argue their fiefs are more collaborative and innovative when their peasants’ ears, nostrils, and henholes are chock-full of miscellanea. RTO’s detractors say that shoving things up their crevices really hurts, and they don’t see how it helps in any way with their daily toil.

Ultimately, however, with The King’s latest decree it doth appear RTO is here to stay. Those who oppose it have limited options in the face of a Royal Decree. The Royal Orifice Inspectors (ROIs) recommend inserting something into at least one or two corporal apertures without delay, as an orificial inspection can come to thy fief at any moment.

“I suppose we can revolt. But revolting after a day behind the plough with a bunch of turnips in my arse is such a pain,” spake Plowman. “But what choice do we have? Anyway, I’m already getting kind of used to the turnips being back in there.”

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There hath been much buzz in the Kingdom of late about His Majesty’s decision to place tariffs on a number of durable goods, chief amongst them slaves.

The King’s detractors argue that placing tariffs on slave imports will have ripple effects throughout our modern eckonomie. They say the costs of forced labour in our mines and quarries shall rise, and this will lead to increased costs for castle stone, increased costs for castle construction, and so on until building castles becomes so expensive that us lords are stuck living in the castles we already have.

But as far as mineself is concerned, this is all part of the plan.

Ponder it as such: If a lord or lady is unable to obtain sufficient quantities of foreign slaves to quarry their fief’s mines on the cheap, will this not offer a fyne opportunity to hire more slaves locally? Indeed it shall. I have already hired dozens of slaves from a village on my fiefdom’s periphery, and let me tell you that once you stab a few of their womynfolk they work harder than any foreign slave e’er could.

Let us not allow other lands to take advantage of us in the slave trade when we have plenty of hardworking, loyal, desperate future slaves here at home.

On top of that, this tariff shall offer more opportunities to go to war and enslave one’s enemies. Acquiring things through trade is so boring. ‘Tis far more manly to take what one desires at the tip of the spear. If thou art not willing to go to war to acquire slaves, then perhaps thou art not fit to have slaves a’tall.

And what of our merchants, scribes, and other white-ruff-collared professionals whomst shall be harmed by rising prices on wares such as rare ſpices, common ſpices, and designer codpieces? What if the eckonomick fallout causes these fyne men to lose their cushy office jobs? Well, there are plenty of stones to break, and they can easily transition into new jobs as slaves.

Some people look at a man and see an individual devoid of eckonomick value. I look at a man and see an opportunity to exploit what little is left of his earthly body for profit.

‘Tis tyme for us to embrace the tariffs and get back to enslaving people here at home. Any man who thinks the slave tariff is a bad thing is welcome to come work for me as a slave and find out for himself.

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By Erwygge the Wise

Despite my great wisdom as one of the Kingdom’s most renowned and serious Wiseman, I enjoy a hearty jest as much as the next fellow. Indeed, I hath even been known to pull a prank or two on All Fools’ Day. (During my lectures, I once farcically attributed a quote about prudence to The Prophecies, when it was clearly taken from the treatises of Ildibad the Hermit, much to the cachinnation of all present!)

But whilst all the Realm gets ready to celebrate Fool culture on April the 1st, one cannot help but wonder: why do Fools get their own holiday, when Wisemen like me get naught?

Are learnéd intellectuals such as mineself not worthy of such an honour?

Doth centuries of Wisemen’s contributions to society amount to nothing?

I’ve spent many a tedious year pondering theorems and conjectures, and countless grueling hours devising astute stratagems, but apparently all of mine enlightened meditations are worth not even score and four hours to the rest of mankind. All of mine efforts in awing the ignorant rubes of society with my massive intellect are apparently meaningless to those who designate our holidays.

Yet, where would we be without men such as I to ponder and ruminate? I’d like to see a mere Fool ponder theorems even half as well as I.

I begrudge not the Fools for the honour that hath been bestowed upon them, this right to caper and jape prodigiously without fear of repercussion for an entire day. But theirs is not the only profession in the Kingdom deserving of such a privilege.

I think us Wisemen are also owed the distinction — a Wisemen’s Hist’ry Month or International Wisdom Day — wherein the cultural and historical contributions of noble philosophers and cultivated sages are celebrated by all the land. On this day, the Wisest Men in the Realm shall gather in the publick squares and endlessly spout information to impress one another with our superior knowledge.

Ah, yes. Now that sounds like fun. In my shrewd and discerning opinion, the peoples of the Realm would enjoy such a perspicacious spectacle far more than any flatulent gag.

And, of course, womyn won’t be invited.

Further Reading

• Ye Opinion: Real Fools Don’t Celebrate April Fools’ Day. Real Fools Are Idiots All Year Round

• Jester Considers Trying New Routine Where He Doesn't Just Bounce Around Like a Fycking Idiot

• Addendum: Jester’s Privilege

• And, from The History of Court Fools, by John Doran:

“Why, pray, of late do Europe’s kings

No jester in their courts admit?

They’ve grown such stately solemn things;

To bear a joke, they think not fit.

But though each court a jester lacks,

To laugh at monarchs to their face,

All mankind do behind their backs,

Supply the honest jester’s place.”

Efficiency beeth the word of the day. From the Northlands all the way to the Nether Realm, lords are seeking ways to cut down on costs to fund much needed ne’erending blood feuds against their enemies.

But those discourteous peasants — e’er rabbling about a “living wage” and “not dying of famine” — tend to rebel at the first word of downsizing. Inefficient thralls that they are, they cannot comprehend the economick benefits of subjecting most of the population to forced, unpaid labour and/or throwing them into the meat-grinder of siege warfare.

But if thou art an innovative lord seeking to streamline thy fiefdom’s operations, fear not! For here are some tried-and-true tips for increasing efficiency on thy fief which shall bring only a minor risk of causing a peasant revolt.

1. Changeth the Narrative

Many peasants fear the ills that await them if they are banished from thy demesne and forced to wander the wilderness alone in shame. But a simple shift of the narrative during a downsizing can lay their worries to rest.

You are not “eliminating wages and casting thy peasants hopelessly into the wilds,” you are merely “creating new opportunities for them to thrive in the wilds sector.”

2. Severance packages

If thy peasants are growing uproarious about the prospeckt of jobbe cuts, a generous severance package may be in order. Sever their hands, feet, or even their heads, and this will greatly limit their ability to rebel.

3. Offer a Bridge Program

Oft the hardest part of eliminating employees is getting them physically off thy fief and across the gushing waters of the River Ebbwyr. Prior to announcing cuts, have thy peasants build a bridge spanning the river (for no extra pay of course). Then, as soon as they’re on the other side, burn the bridge so they have no way of getting back across.

4. Dull Their Pitchforks Beforehand

Or better yet, confiscate all the pointed and flammable objects on the fief. This won’t prevent rebellion outright, but it will at least make the unruly peons easier to slaughter during the counter-rebellion.

5. Put Their Angst to Goode Use

Sometimes ‘tis impossible to avoid the pitchforks and torches coming out. If this be the case, you merely have to find an adequate target to which thy peasants can direct their anger. Blame the jobbe cuts on the Dark Lord, or a neighbouring baron, or the Welsh. With any luck they will burn down someone else’s castle and die in the process. A win-win!

6. Retraining

Just because thy fief is no longer offering to pay its labourers doth not mean that there aren’t plenty of other opportunities out there for lowborne swine. Retrain thy peasants to find new jobbes as unpaid serfs, court eunuchs, or arrow targets.

7. Mass Beheadings

If all else fails, a mass execution of thy nonessential labourers always works. As they say in lord school, “A dead peasant is an obedient peasant!” Just be sure to spare enough of them to dispose of the bodies afterwards.

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When we first started worshipping Ùš-huldìm the Merciless, Ravager of Flesh, Scorge of Natéšbi, Blood God of the ālu Aššur, I thought, “This is great. This is just what our village needed. A fresh Sumerian blood god to really shake things up in the deific wars of ascendance.”

But now that he’s been waging his apocalyptic purge on mankind for a couple years, I have to admit I might have been wrong: I think we’ve been worshipping the wrong Sumerian blood god.

When his quasi-corporeal form arose from the ashes of Dur-Šharru’ukin, he looked like he would offer an original take on gods-worship in our little region. And we needed someone to upset the status quo. We’d been worshipping the same boring sun gods, and river goddesses, and forest sprites that our ancestors had worshipped since the fall of Shurrupak.

But now I’m starting to miss those boring gods and goddesses.

For one thing, they let me keep my eyes. Yeah, they still enslaved us and exploited our weak earthly bodies to bolster their divine egos, but it was a much more laid-back enslaving. If you forgot to offer your morning oblations they would blight your crops for a season or two and that was the end of it. It was the kind of enslaving where, as long as you performed the sacrificial rites properly on the morning of the Oxen Festival, your lord’s bronze effigy would spew fresh beer all winter long.

But with Ùš-huldìm the Merciless, if you so much as think of another god he’ll accurse your soul to an eternity of inconceivable torment. I’ve seen him do it. Not to mention he doesn’t let us drink beer at all unless it has blood and bile in it.

When he came to me in my nightmares promising me a role as his lieutenant in the Great Cataclysm if I would only bring him human supplicants to bow as thralls before his wrath, I figured, “Yeah, I can get on board with that.” Little did I know he made the same offer to everyone in their nightmares. If you can’t trust your own blood god to be honest with you about your role in the Ruination of Namlú’u, who can you trust?

Maybe it’s our fault. We weren’t content with the blood gods we had. In our insatiable lust for more and better gods we sought out the terrors of Ùš-huldìm, and he happily obliged.

It’s not like there weren’t plenty of other blood gods to choose from. Remember Gírungal the Skull-cleaver? Everybody wrote him off because of one unsuccessful spelt harvest, but he would have made a perfectly worshippable blood god.

We were so smitten by Ùš-huldìm’s ambitious promises of turning our cities and our overlords into smouldering rubble and giving us all free hats, we failed to see that he would turn us into smouldering rubble as well (and, some of us, into hats. Which is not to critique the quality of his hats, which are by all accounts the finest in the heavens and earth).

Well, anyway, it’s too late now. Ùš-huldìm is in charge, and the old gods are dead. It is time for me to go. My quill seems to be running dry, and my mind turning to dust. Ah yes, here is the Ravager of Flesh now, come to eviscerate me with his golden scimitar as punishment for writing this.

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It is with a heavy heart that I announce Ye Olde Tyme News is taking an indefinite break.

Since starting YOTN in 2019 as a fun little side project to mess around on Instagram, I have had 2 children, 4 different jobs, and bought a house. Oh yeah, and there was also a little plague in there somewhere. My responsibilities and the complexities of life have increased dramatically, but the time available in a day has remained the same.

As of this writing, Ye Olde Tyme News has 1,455 subscribers, and I am thankful for every single one of you foolhardy knaves. But at no time has it ever had more than 20 paid subscribers. It’s not that I ever expected to make money from it, it’s just that, when it comes to priorities, it has become harder to justify spending 10 hours or more per week on work that only brings in enough money annually to cover a couple trips to the grocery store. (Again, I have 2 children, and they eat a lot). While I still love writing this strange publication, I need to accept that maybe it’s time to move on, or at least to make a change.

Since moving to Substack in December 2020, Ye Olde Tyme News has published 390 articles. And there’s many more headlines, cartoons, and such that I’ve posted on Instagram. That’s a lot of work, and I think it’s time for me to reassess what’s important in life, as a writer, as a husband, and most importantly as a father. (I would say as an employee, but I kinda hate my regular job so that one’s a wash.)

What does this mean, in bullet point format?

1. I will be pausing paid subscriptions. If you’re a paid subscriber, you will no longer be charged. Please let me know if you experience any issues with this and Substack is still dipping into your Royal Coffers.

2. You will not receive regular emails from Ye Olde Tyme News in the coming months. I may end up publishing a story or two, but expect these to be much less frequent, at least for the next few months.

3. The Substack page will remain online. If you want to read old stories or reference Ye Olde Tyme News for your scholarly works (seriously? What kind of scholar are you anyway?) you can still read them on the website here. My personal favorites are the short stories, although no one ever accused me of having good taste.

What Cometh Next?

I haven’t fully made up my mind yet. I rarely do.

After a few months, once I really start missing The King in my life, I’ll probably start writing again. But at this point I don’t know exactly what form that will take. I want to write something that makes people laugh and also makes them think; something that is both satirical and funny but not cynical; something that is optimistic and human, even if occasionally viewed through a disconcerting lens. I don’t know if I’ve achieved any of those things yet or ever will, but now is as a good a time as ever to take a step back and look at this all from a distance.

Maybe Ye Olde Tyme News will transform into a totally different type of blog/newsletter/whatever this is. Maybe I’ll do more cartoons, or shift the focus towards longer form content like historical essays and short stories.

Or maybe I’ll stumble upon some long lost family fortune and be able to quit my day job to take up writing full time from the sun-kissed meadow beside my palace.

The possibilities are endless, but for now, my plan is to take an indefinite hiatus. I plan on taking my sweet damn time and writing at a leisurely pace. I might even try my hand at submitting to some “real” publications.

In the meantime, I hope you’ll stay subscribed and join me for the day His Majesty again bestows upon me the Great Quill of Wisdom, leaving me no choice but to spread His Word throughout the Realm once more.

One never knows when the muse will come calling. I don’t know where she’ll take me, but I submit myself to her will.

Parting Thoughts

I genuinely appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read Ye Olde Tyme News, comment on posts, share it with friends, and recommend it on their own publications. Even if you only read one story then said “this is stupid” and smashed the unsubscribe button with your war hammer. For those that are reading this, I hope you got as much joy and laughter out of it as I did.

It feels weird. YOTN has been such a big part of my life for the past 4 years. Now that this quest is over, I don’t really know what to do, or how to say goodbye. I suppose the only thing to do is put one foot in front of the other, or one finger in this case since I’m writing on a keyboard, and keep my eyes on the horizon for the next quest to arise.

When it does, I hope you’ll be there to join me. 

And with that, my friends, I bid you adieu. Until our paths cross again, may thy days be filled with laughter and — as always — fawning obedience to The King. 

Fore’er thine,

Jan Lionsnest

Ye Royal Scrivener of Letters

Dear Dark Lord,

I’m sure you’ve heard the news. There are traitors in our midst, minions of our very own Dark Army spreading vile words-not-to-be-spoken-of amongst their fellow thralls.

Whilst these are but a small subset of the Forces of Evil, I fear if I do not stamp them out with an iron fist their sickening opinions will fester and bloom into a bigger problem.

It is in this matter that I seek thy counsel. As Deputy Chief Arbiter of Truth for the Dark Army’s Minion Resources Department, I need to decide which minions I allow to speak, and which minions to Shadow Ban by seizing their souls and casting them deep into the abyss of nothingness known as the Shadow Realm.

Should I start Shadow Banning these garrulous minions, or should I allow these perverted treasonists to continue spreading their perfidious filth?

Or, as an alternative, perhaps a few public tongue-cuttings could serve as a compromise solution?

Some of my lieutenants advise me to Shadow Ban mercilessly. Others argue that Shadow Banning will only strengthen their resolve and the best course of action is to simply ignore them and move on with whatever harebrained Evil Scheme you order us to do next. The rest of my lieutenants don’t say anything because I already cut their tongues out.

Simply say The Word and the Shadow Banning shall commence.

Thine in fawning obeisance,

Shadow Banner

Dear Shadow Banner,

Clearly, you haven’t read my content moderation policy.

Paragraph 7.c. clearly states:

Minions are not allowed to speak unless spoken to, and they are under no circumstances allowed to have opinions.

Honestly, the fact that any of our minions still have tongues comes as a surprise to me.

What kinds of foul opinions are they spouting? Is it the normal drudgery about not getting enough chum at feeding time, and how they’re constantly dying pointlessly in battle? Or is it the much more dangerous talk of Hope and Dreams?

Either way, I really don’t care what you do. Cast them into the Shadow Realm or let them squabble, it is of no import to me in the Grand Scheme of things. If I have my way, we are all fated for the Shadow Realm one way or another. In fact, their petty squabbling only feeds into the Hate that spins the Great Wheel of Evil which shall one day bring my power to its terrible zenith.

Ask yourself: Are their words likely to cause death and destruction on a sweeping scale?

If so, that’s great! Let them squabble. We have much bigger fish to fry at Dark Army HQ. If everyone is trapped in an endlessly crescendoing echo chamber of vitriolic clamor, I’d say things are going just fine. Extra points if they’re armed. We should take a “hands-off” approach and continue to let them kill one another organically until the whole system just sort of crumbles in on itself.

As long as the blood keeps flowing, I’m happy.

That’s the Plan after all, isn’t it? More blood?

The last thing we would want is discourse, or level-headed thinking, or underlings having the mental space and clarity to develop ideas of their own. Or, gods forbid, just ignoring the noise and getting on with their lives.

I remain, dear vassal, thy Vile Master,

Dark Lord Dörgu Bøgerleshk, Bane of the Nrymbobl, Usurper of Forlorn Souls, Blood Govourner of the Flaming Infernal Swamplands

P.S. If they’re from the goblin sect known as “Nazis” then go ahead and cast them into the Shadow Realm. Those guys are the worst.

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Previous Dear Dark Lord Letters:

• Dear Dark Lord #15: Should I Wait Until After the Darkness Has Cast the Realm Into Eternal Shadow to Get Married?

• Dear Dark Lord #14: I Think the Spider Queen That Spawned an Army of Man-eating Arachnids Is Taking Advantage of Our Parental Leave Policy

• Dear Dark Lord #13: My Quarry Slaves Aren't "All In" on Our Quarry's Mission

• Dear Dark Lord #12: What Is a ‘Living Wage’ and Why Do My Minions Keep Asking for One?

• Dear Dark Lord #11: My Wife Wants to Turn Our Dungeon Into an In-law Suite

• Dear Dark Lord #10: The Mutant Warriors I Spawned from the Fires of Yggnorøth No Longer Call Me “Father”

• Dear Dark Lord #9: I Just Found Out That “Evil” Means We’re the Bad Guys

• Dear Dark Lord #8: Henchmen These Days Aren’t as Blindly Obedient as They Used to Be

• Dear Dark Lord #7: Will I Ever Be as Evil as My Father?

• Dear Dark Lord #6: My Eunuch Slave Army Gave Me a Negative Work Climate Survey

• Dear Dark Lord #5: Undead and Over It

• Dear Dark Lord #4: Too Heartbroken to Haunt

• Dear Dark Lord #3: Inner Demon

• Dear Dark Lord #2: Minion Searching for Meaning

• Dear Dark Lord #1: Sorcerer on the Sidelines

A lot of animals wait their whole lives for that big break. They grind it out in the pasture day after day waiting for a role in a manger scene that may never come.

But every Christmas, a few lucky sheep do finally land that breakout role. Here’s a few of our favourite sheep that are totally CRUSHING nativity scenes this year.

Sheep Sleeping in the Background

Anyone who has ever been a sheep in a nativity scene will tell you how hard it is to pretend to sleep in the background while all the action is going on down at the manger. But these sheep’s execution is flawless.

Sheep on Hill

This herd of sheep might only be extras in the background of this nativity scene. But you have to start somewhere, right? It’s not easy to graze on a hill that steep, as anyone with an eye for talent will attest. We think these sheep nailed and will have a long career of being sheep in nativity scenes for years to come.

These Guys

Look at these dudes, sitting there all casual as if the Son of God hasn’t just been born before their creepy blackened eyes. Now that is artistry!

This Guy

Okay. We’re being told that this one is a probably a dog. Albeit a rather sheeplike dog. But just look how close he is to the Christ Child!

Ox and the Ass

The ox and the ass tend to hog the limelight next to baby Jesus’ cradle. Which is why you can barely make out the sheep grazing off in the distance in this nativity scene. But what you might not know is that the these sheep also serve as the managers and talent agents for the ox and the ass. One even serves as an executive producer! They may not care about the limelight, but they certainly have long nativity scene careers ahead of them in behind-the-scenes roles.

Well done, goode sirs!

Image sources: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

‘Tis the season for family, the giving of gifts, and the merciless hunter-god soaring through the winter skies in search of fresh meat.

Here are some greeting cards to give thy loved ones during this special tyme of year. And give graciously, for you may not survive the winter.

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Further reading:

There is much ado in the Realm regarding my opinions on freedom of speech. Many of my contemptible opponents have seen fit to slander my viewpoints in this regard merely because my methods of silencing them “frequently” involve “physical violence.”

But ‘tis tyme to set ye record straight: Just because I happen to strongly support the practice of cutting my rivals’ tongues out doth not mean that I am against free speech.

The best place to kill an idea is at the tongue, but it’s not like it’s my only, or even my preferred, method. Strangling an idea with bureaucratic red tape or paying off a handful of the loudest town criers to malign my foes in the village square is much cleaner.

Self-proclaimed philosophers may argue “thou cannest cut a tongue, but thou cannest not cut an idea.” I happen to disagree. I’ve cut quite a few tongues in my day and can attest it works at least 90 percent of the tyme. Sure, one of my newly tongueless enemies will occasionally pick up the quill and take to denigrating me in writing. But ‘tis rather uncommon. Most of the knaves don’t know how to write, and after I cut their tongues out I make sure to rob them as well so that they cannot afford parchment.

Give heed: I do not relish the severing I must do. I would much prefer the authorities get involved and The King order my rivals’ tongues cut in the Court of Law. But such is the society in which we live that each man with a dagger and an opinion must take to incising of his own accord.

Some of my critics (whose tongues I have not yet cut) might protest: “But won’t cutting out peoples’ tongues merely strengthen their resolve to their cause and further drive us apart, not to mention become a news story in and of itself, thus inadvertently advertising their enterprise? Whereas honest discourse could instead seek to bridge the divide and lead to some level of — if not agreement — at least mutual understanding of one another’s beliefs, and mayhaps even influence the dialogue in a constructive way? For are we not all humans after all — some of us perhaps led astray by the vicissitudes of lyfe or the influences of evil actors — but humans nonetheless? Humans who, at our cores, have the same wants, dreams, and desires for lyfe, and love, and loyalty to The King?”

To that I respond: Sleep with one eye open, for my blade is sharp and she thirsts for mouth-blood.

If you disagree with me in this matter I will happily meet with you to discuss it, whereupon I will kindly introduce you to my friend Grünhilda. (That’s what I named my knife.)

Also by Jorêk Bloodknyfe:

Dear Dark Lord,

I finally met the perfect girl. She has six eyes, spider legs, a strange growth on her back that mutters incantations in the Black Tongue, and a perfectly sinister personality. We’ve been dating for some time now, but I can’t decide when to pop the question.

I know she’s the one, but the timing never seems right. We’re both so busy at work: me managing the slave quarry, her in the dungeon where she pokes prisoners’ eyes out with her spider legs.

On top of that, money is tight. Not that we need much. We have a decent apartment with a view of Grossdeath Mountain, but we’re by no means rich. A wedding might put us in the red, what with the costs of the traditional ritual human sacrifices, boiling cauldrons of elf blood, and cake. We’re certainly looking forward to the End Times when all wealth is destroyed and all beings must endure an equitably endless squalor. But until then, we have to get by with what we’ve got.

I know eventually the Final Battle between Good and Evil will come and make things right. The big question is should we wait until after the battle, when the Realm has been cast into Eternal Shadow, or should we pull the trigger and get married now?

She’s the one that I want to be with forever (assuming, of course, that your plan for the End Times does not involve destroying all life as we know it. That’s not your plan, right? If it is, I’m totally cool with it, but that would certainly change things for me from a relationship planning perspective). I cherish your diabolical advice in this matter.

Thine petulantly,

Lost in the Troth

Dear Lost in the Troth,

I remember my first marriage. And my second marriage. And all the ones that ended in multi-decade civil wars and/or premeditated murder.

The one thing they all had in common was that I never felt ready. It was always “Maybe the timing will be better after we burn so-and-so village to ash” or “Maybe we should wait until we conquer the the kingdom of Wood Elves on our southeastern border so we don’t have to worry about raiding parties and can finally get an evil lair with a yard.”

But sometimes you just have to dive headlong into love. Sometimes you need an armada of ships for the upcoming naval campaign and you need to cement your alliance with her kingdom — whose power at sea is unrivaled — now. Sometimes you’re young and stupid and coming off the hubristic high of a successful military offensive and decide to marry every woman within a 30-mile radius.

Whether your decision is right or wrong, you won’t know unless you try.

Here’s some things I like to ask myself before I decide to tie the knot:

1. Do I truly know my partner? I can’t tell you the number of times I got married too soon, only to wake up the morning after our wedding with a dagger embedded in my chest in an attempted assassination. Physically I’m fine when that happens — I always sleep in body armor and I’m pretty much invincible. But it hurts emotionally.

2. Is there a decent chance one of you will die violently in the near future? You never know when you might be killed by a stray arrow, or purged in one of those famous purges that I tend to do from time to time. If you think one of you is up for a purging, it might make sense to get married now to enjoy the good times while you still can.

3. Does she get along with your family? I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve brought my wife to a family holiday weekend and half the house woke up in the morning with a dagger embedded in their chest in an attempted assassination. It’s a convenient way to get rid of a pesky family member, sure, but not ideal if you’re trying to endear your new wife to them.

4. Are her spider legs suitable for household chores? Spindly death claws are great for tormenting prisoners, but are less suited to tidying up around the house. Before you tie the knot with a spider-lady or some other sort of hybrid freak, make sure you have a shared understanding of what each partner’s domestic responsibilities will be.

5. Do you still think of yourselves as individuals, or as one with the Darkness? When you talk about your future together, do you talk about “I/me” or about “Us in the Darkness/We in the Darkness/the Darkness in All of Us”? This shows that your mindset has shifted. In marriage, it’s not just about the Evil you can spread on your own, but the Evil you can spread together.

Nobody ever feels ready, and nobody ever really is. But we do it anyway.

That’s love. Even if it does end in war and intrigue, which, speaking from experience, is the most common outcome.

I remain, dear vassal, thy Vile Master,

Dark Lord Dörgu Bøgerleshk, Bane of the Nrymbobl, Usurper of Forlorn Souls, Blood Govourner of the Flaming Infernal Swamplands

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Previous Dear Dark Lord Letters:

• Dear Dark Lord #14: I Think the Spider Queen That Spawned an Army of Man-eating Arachnids Is Taking Advantage of Our Parental Leave Policy

• Dear Dark Lord #13: My Quarry Slaves Aren't "All In" on Our Quarry's Mission

• Dear Dark Lord #12: What Is a ‘Living Wage’ and Why Do My Minions Keep Asking for One?

• Dear Dark Lord #11: My Wife Wants to Turn Our Dungeon Into an In-law Suite

• Dear Dark Lord #10: The Mutant Warriors I Spawned from the Fires of Yggnorøth No Longer Call Me “Father”

• Dear Dark Lord #9: I Just Found Out That “Evil” Means We’re the Bad Guys

• Dear Dark Lord #8: Henchmen These Days Aren’t as Blindly Obedient as They Used to Be

• Dear Dark Lord #7: Will I Ever Be as Evil as My Father?

• Dear Dark Lord #6: My Eunuch Slave Army Gave Me a Negative Work Climate Survey

• Dear Dark Lord #5: Undead and Over It

• Dear Dark Lord #4: Too Heartbroken to Haunt

• Dear Dark Lord #3: Inner Demon

• Dear Dark Lord #2: Minion Searching for Meaning

• Dear Dark Lord #1: Sorcerer on the Sidelines

Ladies, we know thou cannest feel lonely and under-appreciated when thy lover spends more tyme with his guy friends than he does with thee. Thou mayest worry that he cares more about them than he does about thee, and that his constant leaving to “get ales with ye boys” or “fight in the Crusades” or “discover a previously uncharted maritime trade route to the Land of Spice” will tear thy relationship apart.

But worry not! The tyme he spends with his mates is not necessarily a harbinger for the death of thy relationship.

‘Tis hard for both partners in a relationship — both man and she-man — to get this balance right. ‘Tis possible he doesn’t love thee, sure. But there are plenty of other explanations for his behaviour.

Take the quiz below to find out why he’s spending too much tyme with his guy friends. Perhaps he is not that into thee; perhaps he is a hermit monk living in a secluded mountaintop monastery; or perhaps there is another, more sinister, explanation.

When he hangs out with his guy friends, does he invite thee?

A. Nay. Womyn are prohibited in the taverns and wars that he frequents.

B. Nay. Womyn are prohibited from stepping foot on the monastery’s sacred grounds high up in the clouds. And I also hate hiking.

C. Yea. He is all too enthusiastic to invite me. But I don’t go because all of his friends are either peasants or actors, and hanging out with them is a bore.

What types of activities do he and his fellows take part in?

A. The usual manly endeavours: Thrusting, heaving, romping, wrangling, rollicking, skirmishing, and the like. Usually whilst drunk.

B. Mostly praying in silence. Occasionally nodding at one another in silence. Illuminating manuscripts in the scriptorium, in silence.

C. Reading poetry, plowing the fields, and/or talking yearningly about his love for me. Usually whilst drunk.

Doth he send thee missives whilst he is away?

A. Nay. He doth not know how to write. Only in the darkest hours of the night when he has drunk his fill and he is seeking to commit the carnal sin of lust will he hire a scribe to send me a missive asking if I am still awake.

B. Only once. He wrote me a letter to say that communicating with womyn is a sin and that I shall receive correspondence from him no more.

C. Yea, he despatches a crow with a new poem he wrote nigh on every five minutes. Things like:

Thine hair doth flutter

In the breeze.

Come joineth me at

The tavern, please.

And, later in the eve:

The tavernkeep

Didst fill my cup.

My loins are smarting.

Be thou up?

‘Tis soooo annoying.

When you approach him about thy concerns, how does he respond?

A. Ignores me, downs another ale, and gallops off to war atop his steed.

B. Bellows a Gregorian chant in my face and douses me with holy water.

C. Gazes into mine eyes and says,

“Thou art right, and I wast wrong.

I have much maturing to do, for our love is strong.

In future, to thee all day I shall cling,

So our love may bloom like a hyacinth in spring.”

Ye Results

Mostly As - Sorry, m’lady, but he’s not that into thee. It doth seem he shall fore’er be devoted to imbibing of the ale, fighting in wars, heaving large stones down hillocks, loathing womyn, and taking part in other common manly pastymes. Thou shalt always play second fiddle to his doughty desires. On the upside, he’s still super hot.

Mostly Bs - He is a hermit monk living in a secluded mountaintop monastery. Whilst he is bound by sacred vow to live an ascetic lyfe devoted to God, chastity, and utterly spurning womyn, there is hope for thee yet. Mayhaps you can convince him to leave the Church, and the two of thee can spend thy lives on the run, mercilessly pursued by the Inquisition. Or mayhaps an avalanche will destroy the monastery and slide him down the mountainside back into thine arms. Either way, don’t give up on love!

Mostly Cs - He is either a peasant or a poet. No way he would be that nice if he had money and/or status. GET OUT OF THAT RELATIONSHIP NOW!

Hello! Dediric Howell here, from the Moat Companye. You requested a service visit?

Sure, I’d be happy to look at your moat today. Can you just sign this Inspection Authorization for me? And initial here for the one-time Inspection Fee. Perfect, thanks.

Alright, you lead the way, and I’ll ask some questions as we walk.

So, when did ye trouble start? Aha. I see. Were they he-goats, or she-goats? Well, sometimes it makes a difference. And that was last week? Uh-huh. Right. You don’t sayeth. The jester, too? That is strange. Hmmm. No, I wouldn’t call the Search & Rescue Guild just yet.

Ah, here’s your moat. Let me guess… freshwater, 40 feet wide, 20 feet deep, full-perimeter? Very handsome. Just a spot of pond scum there — you know, we do offer Scum Removal if you’re interested. Sure, think about it and let me know.

Now here along the bank, are these the “gargantuan droppings” you mentioned? You were right, they smell... atrocious. Speaking of which, do you know about our Grass Renewal service? Wonderful, I’ll mark you down for it!

Now where’s the “gaping hole of primeval darkness” you were concerned about? On the waterline where the moat bends around the castle, you say? Ah, I see it now. Yes, you could fit a beer barrel through that opening. No, I’ll just inspect from afar for now, thanks.

Alright, my friend. There’s more I want to investigate, but here’s my baseline assessment: Unfortunately, you’ve got one hell of a crocodile infestation.

Given the size and spread of those droppings, I’d say you’re looking at a float of four, maybe five adults. Large ones too, considering the size of that nest entrance — plus the sheer number of your goats and servants who’ve gone missing. And I hate to mention this… but I noticed a cluster of eggs under the drawbridge. So, more incoming.

No, unfortunately I am not jesting. 

Yes, I realize you haven’t actually seen a crocodile yet. But you will, trust me. The more they feed, the bolder they’ll become. Stay alert, especially around this time of day, would be my professional advice.

Yes, of course — get a second opinion. But I promise you, another consultant will just tell you the same thing, while wasting valuable time you can't afford. Meanwhile, my Companye can help you, today.

Here’s an illuminated parchment with our service options. Up top, the Danger Reduction Package would provide immediate, short-term relief. We’d quarantine and seal that nest entrance with our patented QuikMuck barrier, which guarantees protection for seven days, or until the beasts tunnel out elsewhere on your property. As a courtesy, we would also “locke in” that same rate for weekly follow-up treatments.

Now at the bottom of the parchment, that’s our Total Threat Elimination Package. That’s gonna address the root causes of this infestation, top to bottom. We’re talking full-scale moat drainage, crocodile-slaughtering, egg-smashing, and moat re-watering. Yes, it's intensive, and some might say expensive. But if you want this job done once and done right, the Total Threat Elimination Package is your best bet. 

And ask thyself this: "Can you really put a price on peace of mind?"

Now whatever package you choose, for mere shillings extra you can also add-on our signature Vow of Silence. This risk-free “assurance” product is wildly popular among the Ladies and Lords of the Realm who trust us with their embarrassing and potentially reputation-ruining infestations!

Are you leaning towards one service package or the other? I don’t mean to rush you. But the longer we dally, the worse this infestation gets. Say the word, and I can have men here by sundown (with just a minor Expedited Service charge) to get cracking on this thing.

Sure, take a moment to think it over. You know, mineself also likes to weigh important decisions near the water- BY GOD, WATCH OUT!!! Get back! Yes, kick it in the face! Didn’t I tell you?! Hold on, I’m coming! 

Thumbs up if you approve the one-time Client Retrieval surcharge? Perfect. Now just reach out and– NO! Don’t let him pull you into the water. Dig into the mud. Deeper! Now grab my wrists and pull. Harder!

Keep your eyes on me! Don’t look back, just focus on my voice. 

Can you hear me? Good. Now, listen carefully — If you don’t survive, who is the next highest-ranking household member who can authorize a service contract?

“By the gods, she is so young and beautiful. But not so young that it would be considered inappropriate in our current cultural context to ask for her hand in marriage.” 

Though, admittedly, her kingdom’s standards in this regard were a bit wanting.

One day, her fairy guardians determined that it was time for her to marry, preferably to a naval power because a recent rash of piracy was severely disrupting shipping lanes. Their economy was in the dumps and could greatly benefit from such a blood alliance. Thusly, the royal family hosted a great banquet and invited all the wealthiest bachelor princes from throughout the land. They also invited a few married princes who seemed to be on the outs with their wives. 

Noticeably absent from the guest list was the evil witch, Malefibitch.

Malefibitch shouldn’t have been surprised by this — she was an evil witch, after all, and besides that she was a total bummer at parties — but, nonetheless, she was quite angered by this slight. She was so angered, in fact, that she placed a curse upon the princess.

“Vile princess, I curse thee!” she cried, as she appeared at the ball in a puff of smoke. “On the day you come of a marriageable age — which, not gonna lie, is creepily young — you shall die! Sad and alone, you shall die!”

She then shot some evil magic stuff out of her wand at the princess, hitting her in the heart. The collateral damage also killed a few nearby guards, but no one really noticed or cared. Malefibitch cackled maniacally and disappeared in another puff of smoke. 

That is how the story begins.

It’s up to you what happens next.

A

On the day the princess comes of marriageable age, Malefibitch’s curse takes hold. The princess falls into a deep sleep, but through the magical efforts of her fairy guardians she is still alive.

Her parents place her high in a tower, praying that one day the curse will be broken by true love’s kiss. (True love’s kiss is prescribed as a cure for many common ailments of the time, so they just kind of assume it will work for this.) It takes a while for the right prince to find her, because the types of people who are capable of true love are typically not the types that would open-mouth kiss an unconscious stranger. But eventually the curse is lifted and she marries a modestly wealthy if otherwise unremarkable prince.

Malefibitch has fallen on hard times by this point. Sorcery doesn’t pay like it once did and she’s looking for work. In an act of benevolence, the princess hires her as a sorcery consultant and they go on to have a fairly amiable working relationship.

B

On the day the princess comes of marriageable age, Malefibitch’s curse takes hold. The princess falls into a deep sleep, but through the magical efforts of her fairy guardians she is still alive.

Her parents place her high in a tower, praying that one day the curse will be broken by true love’s kiss. (They don’t know this yet, but true love’s kiss is definitely not the cure. The cure is leeches.) They go for quantity over quality in this regard, and invite princes from across the realm to come and kiss her whilst she sleeps. So many princes come that the king and queen decide to make a business of it, charging a flat rate per kiss. The model proves successful, and the tower becomes the mainstay of a sleeping princess-themed amusement park.

The kingdom prospers for a time, but after the king and queen die the amusement park falls into disrepair. Princes’ tastes change, and kissing sleeping princesses is no longer considered the innocent fun it once was. The tower is repurposed as a posh apartment complex. The new king and queen place the princess into storage, and as far as we know she’s still there.

C 

Let’s backtrack a few seconds.

The princess, anticipating Malefibitch’s wrath, wore a magic slipper to the ball. The slipper is made of an enchanted glass that cannot be penetrated by dark magic. As soon as Malefibitch shoots the magic stuff out of her wand, the princess does a backflip-cum-roundhouse kick and kicks the magic stuff with her slipper. It ping-pongs off the ceiling, off the wall, off a gong that is in the corner of the room for some reason, and directly into Malefibitch’s heart, exploding her into a sparkling mist not unlike glitter confetti tinged with internal organs.   

The princess, much to her surprise, finds great pleasure in the taking of another life. She is enraptured by it, addicted to it. She goes on to become a power hungry, bloodthirsty tyrant who presides over a reign of terror for 60 years. She conquers all the surrounding kingdoms, enslaves the princes who once sought her hand in marriage, and turns them into concubines. She hunts down all of Malefibitch’s witch kin and executes them in horrific fashion. 

In her old age, as Malefibitch predicted, the princess dies sad and alone. Later historians note that, despite her penchant for violence, her reign was one of great technological progress and economic prosperity.  

D

Everything begins as in A, except that the prince doesn’t break the curse until 700 years later. Actually, he’s technically not a prince, but a guy named Nick Prince, which is close enough.

By this point, technology has evolved so rapidly that the princess can hardly comprehend the complex world in which she finds herself. Even the language is unintelligible to her. Those who observe her wandering the streets in her moth-eaten gown assume she is mentally unstable. Nick Prince tries unsuccessfully to help her adjust to the modern world, but in the end it’s a losing battle and he leaves. The princess is left to wander the streets alone.

Maybe she dies of a broken heart. Maybe she’s hit by a car. Either way, the ending is the same: Malefibitch’s prediction comes true, and the princess dies sad and alone.

E

Everything happens the same as in D except Nick Prince never finds the princess. The tower she’s asleep in gets demolished as part of an infrastructure modernization project and she ends up buried in the foundation of an Arby’s.

F

Nick Prince owns the Arby’s. Something about the establishment draws him to it. At first, he assumes it’s the roast beef. But with time he learns it is something else, something deeper even than tender heaps of roast beef on a sesame seed bun.

He finds the still-sleeping princess during a restaurant remodel and covers her in Arby’s roast beef and melted cheddar, which in this version is the cure. Never mind how he knew that. The curse is lifted and they fall in love. They go on to run a successful chain of fast food franchises across the Midwest.    

G

Malefibitch realizes she forgot her coat at the party. She reappears in a puff of smoke. The atmosphere is super awkward by this point, but she really likes that coat. She fights her way through the bouncers, grabs her coat, and disappears again.

A few days later, the wife of one of the guards who was killed, vengeful after her husband’s pointless death, comes to Malefibitch’s hovel in the forest and murders the witch in her sleep. 

Remember: The extras in our own story are the main characters in theirs. 

Everything else continues as in B.

H

“Wait!” cries the princess, just before Malefibitch disappears in a puff of smoke. She pulls Malefibitch to the side to speak to her in private. “Before you disappear in a puff of smoke, I want you to know that I think you’re right.”

Malefibitch is confused, but she decides to hear her out. “Go on,” she says.

“We should have invited you to the ball,” says the princess, “even if you are an evil witch and a total buzzkill. There’s many types of people in this kingdom, and they all deserve to be invited to balls, regardless of whether they’re princes, witches, knights, or whatever. But not peasants, because we need to draw the line somewhere.”

“I’m listening,” Malefibitch says.

“You and I are not the enemies here,” the princess says. “Our real enemies are the king and queen. They’ve been snubbing you from ball invites for years, and they’ve been trying to marry me off to some prince even though I’m way too young and ambitious for marriage at this point in my life. Also, I would like to experiment a little bit first, play the field, as they say.

“So let’s make a deal,” the princess continues. “You lift the curse and help me overthrow the king and queen. In exchange, I’ll make you my closest advisor and invite you to every ball. We’ll rule the kingdom hand-in-hand, and never again will evil witches be treated as outcasts from society.”

This sounds good to Malefibitch, and she and the princess seal the deal with a roundhouse kick. Malefibitch lifts the curse from the princess and turns the king and queen to stone. She and the princess go out for a night on the town to celebrate, and it turns out Malefibitch is actually a pretty fun drinking buddy.

They go on to rule the kingdom successfully, if in a manner that is considerably more evil and witchlike.

I

Everything begins as in H, with the added realism that neither the princess nor the witch has any experience whatsoever in matters of government. Their focus on magic and brewing potions and such over the normal functions of government causes the economy to collapse. 

The kingdom is soon overthrown by a peasant uprising. The castle is turned into a kangaroo court, and most of the nobility is tried and executed. Malefibitch and the princess manage to escape to the witch’s hovel deep in the woods. There Malefibitch schools the princess in the ways of evil witchery, and the princess becomes an evil witch herself.

Years pass and Malefibitch dies. People have forgotten about the princess by this point, and no one believes in witches anymore. Local children tell tales of the mean old hag who lives in the woods, but none know her true identity. She lives a lonely, reclusive existence and dies in the hovel alone.

The forest is ultimately felled to make way for a commercial district. On the spot of her former hovel a local entrepreneur named Nick Prince builds an Arby’s.

J

Malefibitch sits in her witch hovel before the fire, brooding, depressed, nibbling on a boiled snake for comfort. She has just teleported home from the ball and is feeling particularly alone.

She remembers the looks of anguish on the king’s and queen’s faces after she cursed their daughter to an early death. She remembers the shock and terror among the partygoers. She remembers the princess’s look of hopelessness for the youth and beauty which would be snatched from her too soon. 

“When did I become so evil?” Malefibitch thinks to herself. “I wasn’t always this way. Nay, it was those horrific non-witches that turned me into the beast I have become. They’ve always treated witches as pariahs. I merely did what I had to to survive. Do I want to be evil? No. It is not I who chose this path, but them!”

She nibbles on the snake some more. A feeling of regret washes over her as thoughts of the princess once again enter her mind. She feels a pang in her chest, a spark of goodness in her cold, dark heart. 

“Alas, perhaps I bear some responsibility for my personal development. Perhaps it is not too late to change,” she says aloud. “I have done many wrongs in my life. As fun as doing evil stuff is, perhaps it is time for me to turn a new leaf. Perhaps there is still one wrong I can make right.”

Malefibitch decides to uncurse the princess. By doing so, she thinks, maybe she will become just a little less evil. Maybe she will show everyone that there’s more to witches than curses and warts. Maybe, just maybe, she can become good after all. 

She disappears in a puff of smoke and reappears back at the castle. The ball is over now, the guests having left in low spirits. The princess’s sad fate has cast a gloom over the entire kingdom. Malefibitch creeps up the stairs to the princess’s room, determined to undo the curse. The princess lies on her bed, her face buried in a pillow, weeping. The witch approaches her silently, unseen. She sits by her side, laying a craggy witch hand on her back.

“Don’t cry, my dear,” Malefibitch says softly. “Everything will be okay.”

Without another word, she places roast beef and cheddar on the princess’s nape and the curse is lifted. The princess isn’t quite aware of what is going on, but her next breath brings with it a new feeling of life, along with a hint of cheese. Where once there was sadness in her heart, now there is joy. Where once there was despair, now hope for a brighter future. Where apathy, now vengeance.

It is about this time that she notices the evil witch Malefibitch sitting next to her on the bed. In a fit of panic she leaps to her feet and roundhouse kicks Malefibitch in the face. The kick sends the witch flying backwards to the balcony and over the ledge, where she falls many stories to her death. 

The next day, news spreads that the curse has been lifted and the evil witch is dead. The kingdom celebrates by throwing another ball and not inviting any witches.

Everything else continues as in C. 

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That is the end of the story. If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. If you happen to be a curséd princess, I pray it gives you hope that there are many possible ways your story can unfold.  

1. What was your favorite ending?

2. What other endings would you have added?

3. Do you enjoy these longer stories, or would you prefer Ye Olde Tyme News sticks to shorter news-like articles? I have a very bad gauge for what people like to read, and I want to respect your time and your inbox by publishing stories you enjoy.

Another winter approaches, and with it another chance to eke by in the squalor of thy hovel, praying to the olde gods and the new that the frost shall break whilst thou still hast body heat.

But with thy death likely in the coming months, don’t let this Black Friday pass thee by without spending thy meager lyfe savings on superfluous materialistic appurtenances.

Herein be some of this year’s top Black Friday sales that truly put the “deal” in “surviving this winter shall be quite an ordeal.”

Lame Donkey

Pryce - Free

We’re not sure if this donkey is physically incapacitated or simply too stubborn to work. Either way, the owner is giving it away for free to anyone who can convince this lazy asse to leave the barn. (Disclaimer: Kick and Bite Insurance not included)

Toil

Pryce - Market rate

What better way to stay warm during these frigid months of discontent than by toiling endlessly for The King! Most peasants wouldn’t consider this a gift, but, then again, most peasants are dead.

Mercenary Orc Battalion

Pryce - 10 blood guilders per fortnight for the first 2 fortnights, 20 guilders for each additional fortnight

A mercenary orc battalion can make an exceptional gift for any of thy loved ones who have the budget to sustain an extended winter campaign and the command presence to keep them from mutinying. This battalion of bloodthirsty orcs-for-hire may not keep the cold at bay, but they can help thee conquer a land with firewood and milder weather. The best part is they feast on the flesh of their slain enemies, so you’ll save big when it comes to supplying them with food.

A Blunt Weapon

Pryce - 10 shillings for a club, 25 shillings for a flail

This one is best as a pre-Black Friday gift, for its purpose is to smash through the lines at the marketplace ensuring thou art first in line for all the most savoury markdowns. Also comes in handy when the mercenary orc battalion inevitably turns against thee.

The Viscount Discount

Pryce - A lineage of noble blood

The Viscount Discount is available to any noble lords or ladies in the rank of Viscount/Viscountess and above. The way it works is you simply walk into the market and take whatever thou wants because none of those filthy lowborne merchants can stop thee. Just make sure to loudly announce “Viscount on deck! I am a Viscount!” whenever thou enters a market, just to make sure everyone is clear on this point.

Hope Through Prayer

Pryce - 5 groats per week, or discounted annual fee of 230 groats

Church studies hath shown that prayer is 1000% more effective when thou pays for it. Stop letting thy friends and family pray on a useless free plan. Buy them a weekly subscription to God’s coffers and ensure that, whilst their prayers certainly won’t come true, their hope will at least turn a profit.

As a lowly peasant, I used to think I had a clear picture of what Good and Evil meant. Evil was that which marched forward on a merciless warpath, pillaging, burning, and leaving a trail of carnage and hopelessness in its wake. Good was that which tried to stop it.

But then I read the Dark Lord’s manifesto and it totally opened up my mind. It turns out Good and Evil are not so black and white.

The Dark Lord hath taken a lot of flak o’er the years for generally being a horrific tyrant who wants to cast the Realm into Eternal Shadow. But if one reads His Letter on Casting the Realm Into Eternal Shadow and Blotting Out the Sun, I think one will find He makes some pretty compelling arguments for His case.

When one reads the Dark Lord’s plan with an open mind, one will truly see that what He is trying to do is for the best:

• A perfectly ordered society where all but the Dark Lord’s most loyal servants are dead or enslaved in the quarry? Goodbye war and strife.

• The sky blotted out by the smoke of a million burning cities? Climate crisis solved.

• Spilling the blood of our virgins in a ritual sacrifice to resurrect the nigh-invincible Army of the Dead? I think that reflects how we all feel.

I used to be like, “I don’t want to become a nameless slave minion who serves the whims of a bloodthirsty despot and ultimately dies pointlessly fighting in His name.” But after reading His manifesto, I’ve realized I was wrong.

Don’t trust the mainstream narrative that hath been pushed out by town criers — who, by the way, are in the pockets of The King. Supporting the Dark Lord is not about fostering hate and violence. ‘Tis about creating a Netherworld of peace and unity, where by coincidence we all just happen to be His slaves. Go out and read the letter for thineself and see if the Dark Lord’s lucid prose captivates thy mind the way it did mine. (Full disclosure: the letter is cursed with a dark magick that will enrapture thee in a temporary pro-Dark Lord trance, but that’s just part of the user experience).

Look, the Realm is polarized enough as it is. Don’t let The King and his town criers pull us apart any further. Under the Dark Lord there will be no polarization or politickal bickering, because everyone who doesn’t agree with Him will be dead. The Dark Lord wants to push us together,1 not pull us apart. (Well, technically some of His execution methods involve physically pulling bodies limb from limb; but He does not intend to pull us apart in the figurative sense).

Since reading the Dark Lord’s call to action, I will never look at Good and Evil the same. I will never look at the battalion of orcs that is currently torching my village and stabbing my grandmother the same. Every subject in the Realm should read the Dark Lord’s manifesto and decide for themself what is right and wrong.

And choose wisely, for when the Dark Lord’s reign is brought to fruition, wrong choices shall be punished mercilessly.

HEAR YE! HEAR YE! I HEREBY CALL TO ORDER THE HOVEL OWNERS AſSOCIATION OF THE MARGRAVATE OF GARTHBROOK.

Dull peasants of Garthbrook,

It is my solemn honour to once again be here above you, expatiating on behalf of our most esteemed HOA. 

Since we last spoke, much progress hath been made around the fief. For one, the horse parking lot (including the section for VIP horse parking) is nigh on complete. Thanks to all the hardworking slaves that built it on time and under budget! Just don’t ask for any promotions to not-a-slave, because slave promotion season has already passed.

Much to my chagrin, the old HOA – which was justly driven out due to incompetence and hole-y ramparts – is still at large. The pathetic Lord Spearl Talbotshire and his ilk remain a thorn in my side, but I am confident we shall find them and eliminate them in due course, in accordance with HOA bylaws, which were recently modified specifically to state that former HOA leadership must be executed (Sorry, not my call, that’s just what the bylaws say). Remember, if you happen to come across any former HOA members you are required by law to stab them on the spot or risk a hefty fine. 

Now, I hear some folks in the back complaining, “But m’lord, thou hast fined us heftily already!” And this is true. We have merely fined thee in anticipation of the many bylaws which you are sure to violate in the future, being the obstinate peasants that you are. You are welcome to file a complaint with our HOA Secretary Valtesse de La Boing, with the obvious caveat that filing a complaint is also a fineable offense. 

Whilst the day-to-day functionings of this fief and its vassals are of little concern compared to much more important matters — such as setting up the beheading booth at our new moat monster-themed amusement park Drowntowne — I ne’ertheless find it prurient to respond to the many trifling letters thou hast written. 

Henceforth, I shall address each of thy concerns in turn. But first, we shall turn to new business.

NEW BUſYNEſS 

• Fall Leaf Disposal. ‘Tis autumn, and that means the grounds are littered with many-coloured leaves that must be raked into heaps and disposed of. However, the grounds are also littered with body parts that were severed or otherwise fell off during the siege. We’ve noticed that these body parts have been making it into the leaf piles uninvited. Moving forward, please be sure to sort thy leaves and body parts into separate piles for disposal.

• Lovesick Crooners with Lyres. Fall is also the season for lovesick crooning young lads with lyres to croon outside of fair maidens’ windows through all hours of the chill dark night. We have received many noise complaints thus far, so please keep thy crooning to a respectable level after evening prayer.

• Fusty Perfume Merchant. We have also received complaints about a perfume merchant on Midden Street who sells perfume that smells like midden. Not only do his eaus de cologne reek of midden, it appears they might actually be midden. Considering his perfumery is located on Midden Street, this should not come as much of a surprise. Honestly, ‘tis hard to tell the scent of midden from the generally foul peasant scent that lingers in one’s nostrils at all hours of the day as is, but we prefer to keep such fragrances far from our noble personages.

• Inclusivity Initiative. It hath been brought to the HOA’s attention that our slaves were drawn solely from the previous serf and peasant population. In the name of inclusivity, henceforth all non-noble residents of the fief shall be slaves. We believe everyone deserves the opportunity to build something great without receiving any money or recognition in return. That, and the last batch of slaves had this unfortunate habit of dying or running away – can’t imagine why – and we need to replenish their numbers.

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HOUſING FOR THE PEAſANTS TO KEEP THEM OUT OF ſIGHT

Whilst the construction of the horse parking has been a resounding success according to all of the metrics our Board of Directors cares about, we nonetheless continue to receive complaints about thy “houses” having been “demolished.” 

One such complaint regards the slaves/peasants employed in construction of the horse parking lot sleeping under the horses thereabouts, seeing as they now lack homes. They are becoming an eyesore for the horses, as well as for those whose eyes would be put to much better use in parking their horses and looking at pretty things. We put a lot of effort into this project, and we hate to see it ruined by a few sickly blemishes fouling the scenery. 

We are happy to announce that we have identified a plot of land where these workers can build new homes. It is located in the fetid, uninhabitable swamp where we drained the brackish waters from the old moat, far out of eyesight of important people and horses. If all slaves would kindly remove themselves to their new quarters and get away from our horses, this would be much appreciated.

A TRANſPORTATION PROPOſAL

One Gordon Bundtlickler hath proposed a new business model wherein the peasants would pay one another for rides around the fief on their own carts and pack animals, and the HOA would take a cut of the profits. Mssr. Bundtlicker’s proposal would be funded by the Lord of Salty Abradia, who presumably would provide salt for the pack animals and peasants to lick en route.

Whilst we appreciate the proposal to bring more coin into the HOA’s coffers, we are afraid this proposal hath been shot down. We may or may not have commandeered all of the peasants’ pack animals and burnt their carts for the big Sturgeon Moon Bonfire Party we did a while back. 

And it’s much funnier to watch them walk everywhere.

That said, the HOA is open to considering charging a fee for each mile the peasants have to walk. This sounds like a win-win which may meet the spirit of the original proposal. What say ye?

AN ANGRY LETTER 

Father Thomas Kindly writes:

“This town has really gone to hell. I miss the old HOA with the usual beheadings. You lot with your discounts and coupons make me sick.”

There is no room on this fief for those who do not respect the value of a good coupon. On that note, we are offering a 25% off coupon to Drowntowne for anyone who throws Father Kindly in the moat. This offer is only valid if you can provide proof that he was eaten by the moat monster and not otherwise regurgitated or lingering alive in its belly.

A VIKING THREAT

Murderous Viking Lord Scott, noting that Garthbrook’s walls were torn down to use as materials for the horse parking lot, writes:

“I just thought you might like to know that I and my merry band will be along to kill you sooner rather than later.”

If I had a half-shilling for every marauder who threatened to plunder my lands, I would have enough coins in my coffers to make funding such an expedition worthwhile.

You think I am supposed to cower before every poltroon with the word “Murderous” in his name who threatens to kill me? Nay, I fear not such empty threats, and stand ready to meet them on the battlefield of our soon-to-be-built strip mall. As far as I am concerned, these “Vikings” are a weak and flaccid people who ne’er in all their days could muster the courage to attack an unfortified coastal town replete with unguarded riches. 

That said, if anyone knows how to build walls, please come forward. It seems the only ones who knew how to build walls were the members of the old HOA. We currently only have horse parking lot and strip mall engineers on our staff.

In hindsight, razing our defensive walls to build a horse parking lot and a strip mall may have been a bit shortsighted. We’ve already put a lot of effort into the project management plan for this whole thing so there’s really no turning back now. But I wouldn’t mind a wall or two for the aesthetics. 

CLOſING

In conclusion, everything is going great and all of our residents are happy. There are no indications that things are otherwise. This is truly a testament to our HOA’s magnanimity and innovative leadership style. We look forward to the next phase in our promising reign.

As a reminder, Thursday is Family Night at Drowntowne, so stop on by with any less-than-surefooted family members that you wouldn’t mind slipping into the moat. The moat monster is getting hungry, and Father Kindly is barely an appetizer. 

Fulsomely thine,

Walrich the Loud-chewer

Chief Executive Overlord, ſpicemart Inc. and Preſident, Hovel Owner’s Aſsociation

The King's Knights hath spoken, and the nape of the neck hath once again been selected as the sexiest place on the body to stab with a halberd!

“Whilst there beeth many fyne places on a peasant's body in which to thrust the tip of thy halberd, the nape hath consistently proven to be the sexiest,” spake Sir Halvin von Spontoonsen. “There beeth nothing that maketh mine blood run hotte like the sight of a bared peasant nape primed for the sticking.”

‘Twas a close competition this year, and many other sexy body parts remained in the running right up ‘til the end. The ankle and proboscis finished close behind, though ultimately both proved too fleeting and difficult to stab with a large and unwieldy halberd. Whilst the nape also remains the hottest location to chop with a battle axe, the torso gained ground on it this year in voting, perhaps indicating a shift in stabbing tastes.

“Personally, I’m an ankle fan,” spake Amblard the Ankle-skewer. “But I understand that most people have never seen an ankle close up, and may not even know what it is. So I can understand if they don’t get the allure of it.”

Here is the survey by the numbers:

So, loyal subjects of the Crowne, if thou happens to have a bared nape or ankle, goeth out and bear it for The King's Halberdmen so they may run it through in ecstasy!

I couldn’t do the whole “slay the dragon” bit. As I understood it, there weren’t many dragons left. Besides, I never met one that fried my ass. Live and let live, I always say. Besides, how many times could you see heroes in armor coming at you with a sword before losing interest. 

I felt for them. I really did.  

In days of old a red dragon torched the town cathedral. My people have been slaying dragons ever since. Of course, some prefer the damsel in distress routine. There’s a couple who met that way in our village, and passing beneath their window you could always hear them arguing. That didn’t sound very good to me. People in our village have a habit of ignoring such things, because it would ruin the happy ending.  

In our village, if you haven’t taken your journey you’re a nobody. I needed ideas, so I went into the busy heart of town. Maybe a walk would stir something. In the distance I heard the shearing sound of steel on the cement wheel. It was Mr. Lazro, the sword-maker. If anybody had a catalog of all the different journeys in his head, he would. I walked up to him quietly, watching him work. 

“High demand for swords right now,” he said, sensing my curiosity. “What with the journey season upon us.”  

“Does everyone want to be a knight?” I asked, looking at the great number of freshly-forged swords lying around his shop. 

“You know how it is,” he said,. “Evv-ree-body wants to slay a dragon. It’s the gold standard of adventure.” 

“But I heard there weren’t many left?” I said. 

“Not anymore,” he said. “They’re breeding them somewhere to keep up with the demand.” 

“But how? They’re dragons,” I said. 

“Well,” he said, “they started with two, and began taking the babies away to tame them.” 

“And the mothers?” I asked. 

“I don’t know, kid,” he said. “What did you come to talk to me about anyway?” 

“My journey,” I said. 

“Well, all I can say is choose something other than slaying a dragon. The way they do it now, there is no adventure to it.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Lazro,” I said. 

“Sure kid. Good luck.” 

I began to walk off, then turned back. 

“Forget somethin?” he asked. 

“Mr. Lazro,” I said, “where do they breed these dragons?” 

He smiled. “In the east. A town with no name, known only for having a building with the tallest stables in the land. You will be able to see it from any hilltop.” 

Getting my answer, a fierce necessity to begin my journey seized me. Running away, I yelled back, “Thanks again Mr. Lazro!” 

He hollered back, “No problem kid…See that you don’t get yourself killed!”

Father was not pleased with my decision. “No son of mine is going to use his journey to save a dragon!” he yelled. “What would the others think! That I’ve raised a coward, that’s what!” 

“I don’t care what the others think!” I yelled back. 

“ENOUGH! Tomorrow we buy you a sword! I’ll train you myself!” he said. 

I nearly collapsed at the thought; hours upon hours of endless sword training with father. I had no choice. With my purpose so realized, I could not stay. Father had taken his own journey, now I had to take mine.  

I left a note for my mother:

Gone on my journey, be back soon.

I traveled light. Beyond our village there was nothing but open nature. There weren’t many people living there, but every once in a while there would be a road leading to a stone house. There were wheat fields as far as the eye could see. The sun reflected in each grain, the golden hairs catching the wind and taking its direction. There seemed to be wind-swept voices everywhere, rustling through the tall grasses, through the boughs of the great trees, and up and up, to where it moved the clouds. 

The trees don’t talk, but it is somehow written that I can use their sturdy trunks to rest my body, and their leafy canopies to shade me from a hot sun. They neither judge nor push away anybody seeking rest. I reached up and picked a fine apple.  

The animals too did not live by the laws of man, and this is why I liked them. I once saw a bluebird land on the head of a man being hung at the gallows. The executioner tried to push it away, but it kept returning to the man’s head, and the man did not move to disturb it. It confused the bloodthirsty crowd, and there was a silence as they watched the dumb gallows slave get angrier and angrier at this tiny creature who was humiliating him. The people began to laugh, having found this to be just as entertaining as the hanging. Finally, the man was hung and the bird flew away, and people were a little less happy about getting exactly what they wanted. That little less happy was the shame they never bothered to feel. 

It was getting towards evening. I found a place next to a river and went for a skinny dip. It was cold at first, then my body acclimated, like my body and the river had brokered a deal on my behalf, so I would be warm enough to enjoy the experience. I just started swimming then, underwater with my eyes open. Doing the breast-stroke, I followed a goldfish to her school. When they saw me coming, they all turned in my direction, and dared me to make a move. Now I knew the most they could do was nibble me to death, and it could take years. Still I admired their gusto and left them in peace.  

Something about coming out of the water makes you feel reborn. I dried myself off and got warm, lying on my blanket and watching the sky. I found the North Star and made my wish. I’ve tried paying attention to other stars, but only when I’m connecting the dots, looking for Aquarius. The North Star shines the brightest, that’s pretty much all there is to it. All of us need to believe that something supposedly dead can still effect light. And that that light travels so fast, it is always ahead. 

How many miles I had left, I did not know. So I climbed a hill, like Mr. Lazro had suggested, to see if I could catch a glimpse of the giant dragon stables. Sure enough, there they were, rising high above the landscape. A long, grey building, with rows upon rows of giant parapets, just high enough and wide enough to hold a dragon’s neck and head. Suddenly my blood boiled, and I shouted from the top of the hill.

“Those are dragons you have in there you bastards, not chickens!”

Mr. Lazro would have been proud. But for me to get anywhere near it, I would have to be mischievously clever.  

I found two knights on horseback waiting for me at the bottom.  

“What is your business here, boy?” one of them asked. The other stared me down. 

“I’m on my way to buy a dragon,” I said. “For my journey.”  

His stone-face broke into a smile then. “A fellow dragon-slayer ey?” he said. 

“You bet!” I replied. “I’m gonna slay that dragon so bad, he’s gonna wish he were born a chicken!” 

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said. “Why don’t you hop up on my horse and I’ll take you to the stables.” 

“Oh no,” I said, “I wouldn’t want to intrude.” 

“Nonsense,” he said. “Anything for a fellow dragon-slayer.” 

“I appreciate it,” I said, and climbed on the back of his horse. 

The other one was now staring suspiciously at my side where my sword should have been. 

“Where’s your sword?” he asked. 

“My sword?” I answered. “I lost it.” 

“That’s no good,” he said. “A knight should always know where his sword is. But not to worry, we’ll get you set up. No doubt you can afford it, buying a dragon and all.” 

“And how much do dragons go for nowadays?” I asked. 

“Oh,” he said. “You could get you a decent dragon for about 10,000. Mind you, they won’t struggle much. No. If you want the real thing, you’ll have to get you a newly-captured wild one. And there ain’t many left of those. Those start at about 50,000.” 

“That’s a lot,” I said. 

He shrugged. “Adventure goes up, price goes up.”  

“Do people not prefer the wild ones?” I asked. 

“Some do,” he said, curling a lip. “But most more or less want the experience of slaying a dragon, without any of the actual leg-work.” 

“Or running!” the other laughed. 

“The company makes most of its money from these,” the first continued, “We tame them, you slay them. That’s the company motto.” 

“Sounds awful,” I said, “A journey without an adventure.” 

“Never-the-less,” he said, “business is booming.” 

As we neared the stables, I could see that a giant wall had been built around them and was garrisoned by more knights. These walls were topped with shards of metal.  

I got off the horse and followed the two men to the gate. One of them said something to the guards. A guard went over to a rectangular hole in the wall and spoke into it. Soon the giant gates slowly began to open. I watched, mesmerized by the massive effort involved in controlling these towering, free, creatures. It did my heart good to know how hard it was.  

The area around the stables was barren. Not even a single tree. And my heart sank, thinking that something so beautiful as a dragon could be trapped in a place like this. My necessity to save one became even more ferocious. I must have had a strange look on my face, because just then, the knight I had been riding with turned to me and asked, “What’s the matter with you boy?” 

I composed myself. “Can we see the dragons now?” 

“In a hurry to get on with it, ey?” he grinned.  

“You bet,” I nodded. 

Near the entrance, the ground was rumbling. Then there was a shrieking so loud and high in pitch, that I covered my ears, sure they’d blow out. “Is that a dragon screaming?” I asked. 

“Oh that,” he said. “That’s Smoke. Caught her last week. She’s having a little trouble adjusting to her incarceration. But we’ll sort her out.” 

“Can I see her?” I asked. 

“No, no, kid,” he said. “She’s not for you. Dragons like that are sold only to professionals. I’ll show you some tamer models.” 

“Show me Smoke,” I said. 

“Kid…I don’t think…” 

“Do you want my patronage or don’t you?” I asked. 

“Very well, sir,” he said, indignantly. “Right this way.” 

The dragon stables were not much different than horse stables. The dragons sat on hay. The walls were moldy in places, where leaking water had eaten away at the grey walls. What I saw, walking the middle path between them, I could not believe. Dragons behaving like servile dogs. Their long, luxurious necks, coiled around their grounded bodies, so they resembled boa constrictors. Their once glorious wings lying flat, slowly rotting from non-use. The thought entered my mind to murder my escort. I wouldn’t have needed a sword. I bit my tongue so hard, my lower lip began to bleed. 

The high-pitched shriek of this mighty Smoke got closer and closer, followed by earth-shattering thuds. Both me and my escort lost balance. The man then turned to me and asked, eyebrows raised, “You sure about this kid?”  

“There is no point in slaying a weak dragon,” I said. 

He smiled like the knight before him. “That a boy,” he said, patting me on the back. “You go on and take a look at Smoke, see if she’s a good fit.” Then he stopped and turned to me. “I’ll require a down-payment first, of course.” 

I fumbled for a good lie. “If you let me see her first, I’ll pay more,” I said. 

He stared at me suspiciously. “Very well,” he said, “Walk to the end. It’s the last one.”  

When he had walked far enough away, I made my way down the hall, where the light was weakest. For the moment, the shrieking had stopped. When I got close enough, I took a deep breath and turned to face her. Her large black eyes were upon me before I’d turned the corner, glaring, surmising the nature of my intent. She was terrifying. A body of shining black sable, a sharp red staircase climbing up the middle of her body to just under her chin. Her giant, bat-like wings clasped behind her, the skin torn where the chain was fixed and had gone through to secure itself around the bottom bone of each wing.  

I sat near the furthest end of the stable, cross-legged, my arms hanging off my knees, absolutely still. She was not happy that I decided to stay, and rising up on her massive hind legs, flung her majestic neck high into the parapet which held it, banging her head between its borders. Her mouth was muzzled, and she was secured by ropes as thick as the leg of an elephant. She brought the whole weight of her body down until the ground shook again. She flared her nostrils the way dragons do before they breathe fire. I couldn’t remove anything until I’d gained her trust, convinced her that I was not there to slay her, but to set her free.  

I chose a non-threatening gesture and began to whistle. I am a practiced whistler, always in tune. I chose a song a dragon might like; a much earlier version of Puff the Magic Dragon. Now Smoke stopped banging her head against the parapets, and focused all her attention to me, full of indignation at so obvious a choice. Furious with me, she began to purposely ruin the song with well timed grunts of such stubbornness that it was really starting to make me mad. 

I stood up and yelled at her then. “I’m trying to help you, you stupid dragon!” 

Smoke was still indignant, but respected the gesture. Then she grew still, as if waiting to see what I would do next. The knights could be back any minute, I thought. It was now or never. I risked everything, opened the stable and began to untie Smoke’s restraints. She brought her head down to see what I was doing. When she saw I was loosening the ropes rather than tightening them, she nearly scared me half to death. She looked me in the eye and nodded her giant head.  

“I’ll take the muzzle off when we escape,” I said. I put a large rope around her neck, and told her not to show resistance if the knights came back. We were halfway down the hall, when a knight approached us. 

“You the kid who came in with Sam?” he asked. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know his name,” I said. 

He eyed me. “Did he tell you you could purchase Smoke?” 

“Yes, he did,” I said. 

“You sure?” he asked. 

“Go ask him,” I said. 

“Do you have proof of payment?” he asked. 

For a second I thought I was screwed, until I remembered what I had standing behind me. I looked Smoke in the eye and winked. Then I removed the muzzle. Her long, majestic neck rose up triumphantly, like she had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. The knight looked at me. Then he looked at Smoke. He turned and ran in the opposite direction. 

“Sorry Smoke,” I said, patting her head. “You can fry the next one.”

I could hear a throng of knights marching toward us— all self-professed dragon slayers. Smoke and I looked at each other, both in agreement that we would fight our hearts out; being that heart was all we had; and the biggest of these, in the body of a fierce dragon, quickly becoming a friend.  

The throng of knights arrived, and stood at a distance, looking up at Smoke, then at each other, to see who would go first. Soon, an argument ensued over who was brave, and who was not; who were the real dragon slayers? But most of them had only slain dragons who were nearly dead. They had never tested themselves against one that was very much alive and in her prime. 

If dragons could laugh, I could have sworn Smoke did. She reared back and took the air into her lungs. She flapped her wings and began to rise, until she broke through the ceiling. She reached down with a foot and took hold of me. When we had flown high above and were looking down at the massive hole— the knights looking up dumbfounded— she finally released her fiery breath. They ran around screaming, trying to remove their armor, which was as hot as lava. 

Smoke and I laughed.  

In the end, I was very happy with my journey. I had saved a dragon, and that dragon, in turn, had saved me.

As for how I was going to explain Smoke to my mother?

Well...one thing at a time.

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