ziggy3k

* * *

Who knew dragons had hair? Scales certainly. Wings absolutely. Fangs and talons were most assured. But a wiry mane that encircled its head and ran the length of its back to the tip of its tail? Grumblethump was astonished. “Like goat hair,” he mumbled.

“What's that?” Tantrifax replied though unable to peel his eyes off the descending monstrosity. It swooped suddenly and his breath seized.

“Hush now,” Isavol interrupted. “I must concentrate.” As a plume of fire erupted from the beast's mouth, scattering the water elementals and washing across the southern wall to send a dozen or so men to a burning end, the Green Sorceress merely lowered her head and closed her eyes. Almost instantly the cries of war and agony were blotted out by intense focus and trained meditation. The palace was an ever growing inferno but one would not gather that to be true if they had only her unflinching face upon which to look. As she solemnly slid into the mystical nether realm of the enchanting mind, physicality became nothing more than a barely noticeable heartbeat.

Grumblethump could only look back and forth between the pretty witch and the terrible creature and wonder what sort of magic could possibly harm such a gargantuan animal. Was she preparing to summon another, far greater water ghost? Could she possibly conjure a boulder from the sky large enough to squash the mighty thing? He had no way of knowing that Isavol's mind -her very sentience- had slipped from her body and was now careening through the air alongside the dragon. Unseen in an astral form, she flew amid the water elementals giving chase, honed in on the creature's head. But unlike the liquid spirits, its breath was of no concern to her. She was aimed for its mind and with it she might prevail.

Still, intent alone was not enough. Her spirit had to contact its own. And as fleeting as its brain might be as it was carried through the air by enormous wings, its myriad thoughts and impulses were sure to prove more daunting a target. Certainly the rain of arrows and smoky clouds disconcerting her in the spiraling material world would be far less chaotic than the mentality of a war-bent dragon. And trying to keep her own thoughts precisely aimed did nothing to help with her astral flight as she circled its head.

Then at last, with outstretched psyche, she touched it. Their spirits merged and at once she was consumed by a fury as fiery as its breath. Charged with pure rage and unadulterated hatred, both boundless and ungrounded, its thoughts were a turmoil of wrath, baleful intent and... was that... fear? Yes! It had in its mind an idea that these humans, these Firdraasmoth people, were out to do it harm. It imagined its own home being destroyed, its own young being slain. There were thoughts of spears and swords and lances from horseback blurred and intermingled with notions of torches and archers and catapults. But there were no exact memories to coincide with these images. That is to say, how it came to know of such things as catapults and lance-bearing horsemen did not come from any experience that she could decipher. There was no previous attack to derive this idea. Still, the idea was there and it was solidly intact. Isavol could only surmise that someone, a someone much like herself, had already been inside this dragon's mind and had done what she now intended to do. What's more, she concluded that they had done a more thorough job than she would be able to do in such a short time as she had. Plans would have to change on the fly as it were.

Back among the physically aware, the dragon seemed to hover a moment and then turned to look directly at the trio atop the tallest tower. With a hideous roar it spun and lowered its head to bare down on them. The ogre and the satyr could only brace themselves for the onslaught. Grumblethump with his hammer, Tantrifax with his pike and Isavol with only her mystical mumbling, they could only pray for a swift delivery of death. But then as it dove down, faster than a creature of such mass should be able to move, Isavol seized Tantrifax's pike and shoved his tiny frame to one side. “Hey! What are you-” he squawked. But in that moment the enormity of the wyrm blotted out the sky and shoved fear like a bolt of cold iron into his heart. That is to say he froze. And in a rush of wind and a blur of movement, Isavol vanished. An instant later it hit him in the belly and sucked the air from his lungs. The dragon had snatched her up. He looked to the ogre who was as equally astonished. Both could only react instinctively and as one they screamed, “Nooooooooo!”

* * *

The royal granary, a previously robust tower packed with edible oats, now stood broken and smoldering as several lines of men and women passed buckets of water from the various pools within the castle walls to the well-fed flames. The scent of a campfire mingled with that of burnt bread and struck Grumblethump as something not all together unpleasant when compared to its source. Though busy helping to haul barrels of water towards the fire, again and again his wary eyes were drawn skyward where it was said the monster would soon return. Like most creatures that still lived, Grumblethump had never seen a dragon before and like most seemingly rational people, he was both frightened and anxious to lay eyes upon such a beast. Tales and songs about the winged bringers of doom were not only born from elven choirs and human bards. Ogres too had a plethora of blood-soaked sagas involving the terrible wyrms. However, whereas a human story might tell of a valiant warrior's struggle against such a creature, the ogrynn stories often vaulted the dragon to the level of protagonist. Even though its victims might well be ogres, it was regarded more as an heroic demigod and its destructive inclinations were seen as grand quests and schemes. But once again, Grumblethump was unlike the vast majority of his peers. The unnecessary brutality of the stories often left him silently questioning the purpose of such a being. Why would a dragon need gold? What did the village ever do to deserve to be gobbled up? But then there were the more tragic tales like The Sad Dragon and the Wicked Dwarves from Far Down Below, which he had retold to Pencimyss. And from such an expressed perspective Grumblethump had come to believe that dragons, much like anyone else, were capable of much more than what was expected of them. After all, wasn't he? And he was just a big dumb ogre not a great, majestic, flying dragon! Yes, part of him hoped the dragon would return so he could maybe talk to it and explain that Firdraasmoth and its people were undeserving of destruction. He could show that both parties were filled with an age-old mistrust that should be cast aside so that dragon and man and even ogre could live peacefully among one another. Of course in his own mind his words gathered to say, We be friends! and hardly set an example of diplomatic eloquence but surely, he believed, the ancient and wise dragon would understand him.

“Get away from here, monster!” a terrified woman screamed, hauling up her child and charging away from the ogre. Grumblethump, a cask of fresh water upon one shoulder, only sighed and continued towards the burning granary.

“Over here, sweet creature,” sounded a more familiar and sympathetic voice. Isavol, commanding a small host of water elementals to fight the flames, stood near the fire and waved for Grumblethump to come to her. Of course without hesitation he did.

He set the cask down with a splash-laden thud and stepped back so the nervous humans could disperse its contents without his nearness upsetting their progress. Instead he turned to the Green Sorceress and glanced up at her ethereal minions darting about above the flames. Curling his brow and canting his head to one side, he was forced to ask, “Water ghosts fight dragons?”

Isavol smiled. “Indeed. They could prove quite useful... at least against its breath. Its fangs and claws and lashing tail... well their tangibility might come into question there.”

“Tangi....”

“Never you mind, humble ogre,” she cooed. “Let's just say it would take someone more like you to deal with the dragon... and quite a great many of you at that.”

Again he looked to the sky but this time beyond the elementals and to the emptiness he thought might suddenly be filled by dragon flesh. “Grumblethump sorry. It just me. Grumblethump only one like me.”

Isavol chuckled and nodded and replied, “I completely agree. But we're lucky to have you, sweet creature. Have you-”

“Run!” a voice suddenly erupted from behind him. “It's back!” immediately cried another. Then a third shout answered all possible questions by declaring, “Dragon!”

Movement in every direction created a swirl of color and dust as the people of Firdraasmoth fled for cover. Chaos seized the moment and the fire was quickly abandoned as any soldiers brave enough to think clearly gathered their bows and crossbows to lash out at the monster from the castle walls. Grumblethump, startled into into stony silence could only look westward and gawk at the black shape gliding across the sky. It seemed like nothing more than an enormous bird at first, but when the suns glinted off its wings he came to understand he was dealing with something much more.

Suddenly he did not have much pity for the thing. The idea of conversation and diplomacy evaporated. The lives of his friends and even his human enemies were in dire peril. And it was with that thought in his mind he turned and looked back towards the kitchen from whence he had come. There, leaned against the wall beside its door, was his hammer. “Be right back!” he barked to the sorceress and quickly he bounded away for his weapon.

But Isavol only nodded. Her gaze was fixed and her expression that of willful intent. “Swarm!” she commanded and the water spirits struck up at the dragon to envelope its snout and hamper its progress. They might not be able to wound it, but even dragons have to breathe. A slow dragon would be preferable to a fast one and it was still some distance away. This gave her time to begin rummaging through her many pockets and pouches for further conjurations. Unlike her ogrynn companion and all but the King and perhaps two of his knights, she had faced a dragon in the past. What's more she survived her encounter. But the footnote to such a feat was that the dragon had survived as well. That is to say, Isavol had not felled a dragon as much as she had escaped it. And as such, Isavol the Green Sorceress, champion of the gods of light and heroine to humans and fairy-kin alike, was scared.

Having barely heard Grumblethump's words and having quickly forgotten them as she scoured her intellect for the most prudent and applicable spell in her mystical repertoire she gasped and stepped swiftly back when the rapid thuds of his footfalls approached. Relieved to find Grumblethump standing there, she quickly instructed, “We must ascend!” The blank stare that answered her forced her to amend her words. “Up! We must go up! There!” She pointed to a spindled tower just beside and overlooking the castle's keep. Far from being the stoutest or sturdiest tower of the many comprising the castle, as was the keep, it was perhaps the tallest and she felt that was where they should make their stand. The vast majority of Tzaemaard's soldiers had amassed upon the keep and that would surely prove to be the dragon's primary target, so Isavol gambled that her more lofty destination would provide a clear line of sight with which to launch her magical volleys. Solidifying this decision with a silent nod to herself she then realized her feet had left the ground and that Grumblethump was carrying her towards the spindled tower.

“Pardon me, madam. But might I be of some help?”

Isavol looked back over Grumblethump's shoulder to see Tantrifax jogging behind them. He was carrying a satyr-sized composite bow in one hand and two quivers of arrows in the other. The twig-like shafts hardly seemed capable of penetrating a dragon's hide and so she said, “Lose the missiles and gather some pole arms! Meet us there!” Again she pointed and with but a nod the satyr dropped his gear and sought out her prefered weaponry.

Moments later, bounding up the narrow spiraling staircase ever upward to the summit of the tower, Isavol had cemented her plan of action and began her preparatory incantations. Muttering to her self and tracing mystical symbols upon her palm with a finger she blinked away their return to sunlight and allowed herself to be placed upon the tower's flat rooftop without comment or distraction. Grumblethump was still uncertain of her arts and took no motions to interrupt her but the clicks of the satyr's hooves and his frantic panting drew forth her attention. When their eyes met she could see that Tantrifax was begging for instruction.

“I need each of you to one side of me. Grumblethump here and Tantrifax here. Alright, now you must be patient. This will take every inkling of bravery and every drop of stoicism you can manage. But you will have to stay perfectly still up until the very last moment. Do you both understand?”

Grumblethump nodded but the satyr had to ask, “And then what? What are you going to do?”

“It's hard to explain. You'll just have to trust me. When the moment comes I will tell you what to do and you must do what I say. No questions. No hesitations. Am I understood?” This time both fellows nodded and the Green Sorceress smiled. “My brave comrades. I could not wish for a greater entourage.”

* * *

No matter how deeply he concentrated on the matter, Grumblethump could not quite catch the gist of why tools were needed to eat a bowl of porridge. But there it was. They called it a spoon and it resembled a tiny bowl with a handle on one side. Why would someone need a tiny bowl to eat out of a larger bowl? Were humans incapable of tipping a larger bowl towards their mouths and slurping down its contents? Ogres surely didn't have any trouble doing just that and Grumblethump was proving this to be truth as he quaffed bowl after bowl of the oat broth. His spoon lay unmoved upon the tabletop across from Pencimyss who sat and giggled at the ogre's tireless hunger for the bland goop she would rather use as brick mortar than food.

“Born from stone or not, I don't see how you can stomach that foulness,” she chuckled. Grumblethump stopped eating long enough to smile at her, streams of pasty porridge rolling down his chin. “We're going have to throw you in a lake to wash all that filth off you! Stop that! That's gross!”

Forced into giddy laughter by his own disgusting antics, the ogre sprayed bits of the food across the room as he hopped about impishly much to the elven girl's delight. She squealed and kicked at him when he teasingly neared her, porridge oozing from his jowls. When he shook his head and splattered her hair with the gunk her voice became absolutely raucous as furniture was shoved and toppled. And so they played through their meal much to the horror of the frightened kitchen staff.

But from their jovial dining table, set up for the ogre in the spacious pantry in the deepest recesses of the king's voluminous kitchen, the pair could not hear the ongoing discourse accompanying the much more inhabited and much more belligerently tinged royal dinner. None of the human shouting, which was growing louder and louder by the moment, was able to reverberate so far to even be heard by elven or ogrynn ears especially over their own noise. And perhaps that was a good thing as most of the shouting was vulgar and directed towards Grumblethump's person. Whether to attack first or prepare their defenses, or how to best infiltrate the ranks of the wicked Dark Templars were all footnotes to the greater question as to how they could possibly allow an ogre to go unbloodied in their midst. Certainly Isavol's allegiance to the gods of creation was part of that question but her history as a champion easily left that a moot contention. All that could be questioned was her judgement in taking an ogre under her wing and this was questioned loudly and with much flare. Again, it was fortunate the ogre could not hear Isavol's name being disparaged. Surely his anger would have been riled and his wrath invoked. But as much as their distance from the proper dining hall might have deafened them to the curses of humans it could do nothing to silence the great and thunderous quake that suddenly struck what seemed like every wall and tower of the palace. It was as if the palace had been lifted and then dropped. And then a gust of sulfurous desperately hot air poured from the kitchen and through the room. Grumblethump instinctively swallowed his meal and scooped up his elven ward.

“What is it Grumby? What's happening?” she mewed. But the ogre could only shrug, turning all of his senses to the world outside of the pantry.

It was then that shouts could be heard, though not from the dining hall. They came from the kitchen and from the courtyards outside. Women and men alike hollered out shrill and terrified cries that sounded of impending death. And though most of what was screamed was garbled by walls and unadulterated fear, a single word sounded out as clearly as a well sung note: Dragon!

What tongue-twisting phrase resulted in a fist fight at last year's Bay Area Meet and Greet?

Fit to be tied.

What method did they use for the Bachelor Auction at last year's Bay Area Meet and Greet?

Now with the fresh taste of sulfur dioxide.

What's behind your house?

Seventeen radioactive pumas

What gives you the right?

Fisticuffs and a whole lot of marzipan.

* * *

King Tzaemaard, a brow gnarled from decades of deliberate contemplation, eyes honed to vorpal penetration upon the whetstone of political intrigue, lips pinched into an expression of grim understanding as could only be displayed by a witness to countless deaths in battle, sat upon a richly carved stone throne as much a gargoyle as it was a symbol of station. This silent but menacing visage sat high above Grumblethump and he was petrified.

The lieutenant, who had been whispering into the king's ear, stepped away and looked to the motley collection of beings below. “Green Sorceress,” Tzaemaard growled.

From the ogre's side, Isavol spoke, “Yes, Your Highness?”

“How is it that my eyes have fallen upon an ogre dressed in rags and this ogre is not dead?”

The jostling of the innumerable guards waiting for the slightest intention of direction from their king to slaughter Grumblethump intensified the moment and inspired Isavol to speak both clearly and loudly. “This ogre is different, Your Grace,” she explained.

“Yes, yes. It sheds tears. Quite a unique talent for a monster. But again, why is it not dead?”

“Your Highness, when I found him he had just slain a troll who had murdered a human child. Those who knew the child chose to blame this ogre for the child's death and as such moved to end his life. I alone knew the truth as the villagers would not be convinced otherwise and I alone sensed the well of purity that springs from his heart. So I rescued him. I took him into my home. And I came to know perhaps the most genuine and loving spirit I have ever beheld in all of Hyanthis. Like the child whose death he avenged on the day I encountered him, his soul is an innocent trapped in a harsh reality. The location of his soul in such a form is perhaps unfortunate but then again how much the better to teach us all not to bend to mere appearances. Acting on the most basic, unspoiled instincts of right and wrong, he has managed to shine a guiding light in the ever growing darkness that has come to visit upon these days. Your Highness, I can not emphasize enough the absolute goodness that pours from his being in his every action, thought and desire. I-”

“He's a good person!” Pencimyss demanded. Her interruption startled and then drew in the attention of every living creature in the King's Hall.

“How's that?” Tzaemaard barked, his aged hazel eyes falling upon the tiny, elven girl.

“I said he's a good person! He's my best friend and Isavol's best friend!” The satyr cleared his throat. “And Tantrifax's too! You just judge him because other ogres are mean! But you don't know Grumby like we do! He loves little furry creatures and making grass bracelets and fables and even loud little kids like me too! He freed me from my cage and saved me from a giant and then he gave me food and told me stories and brought me to Isavol's tower! All while he was hurt real bad! And he didn't even know my name! He's good! I mean it! And if you can't see that then you're just a... a... a big dumb mule!”

The resounding gasp only intensified the silence that followed it. Even the collected dust gathered upon the vaulted rafters high above the cobbled hall resisted the passing breeze so as to pay witness to the next moment. Upon his throne, Tzaemaard looked down at the incredulous child and then to the abashed ogre who had taken to gawking at Pencimyss like every other soul who had heard her speak. Then, to the further astonishment of the hall's occupants, the great Warrior-King Tzaemaard, known throughout all of Hyanthis as a stoic, uncompromising champion of steadfast righteousness, began to chuckle. It started in his belly and reverberated into his chest. The chuckle expanded and spread into laughter and soon his shoulders began to shake. As he hunched slightly forward his laughter became volcanic and soon he was guffawing as if a troop of fools performed before him. Such laughter, as many know, is virulently contagious and without fail every previously silent person was laughing voluminously, echoing through the hall to a point of deafening clamor. All, that is, save Grumblethump, who only looked to the child on his shoulder and smiled, batting his eyes lovingly towards her. In his eyes, she was the bravest elf in all the world.

CHAPTER THREE:

The palace struck up at the sky like an arsenal of spears. Reminding Grumblethump very much of the fairy kingdom, Firdraasmoth was comprised of vaulted towers, both thin and girthed, encircled by a heaped collection of more squat, village-worthy structures. In scale, of course, the two castles were separated by leagues of difference, and though both were crafted of stone, it could not be said that the larger was built from either natural or magical means. Still, the sheer volume of space consumed and the intricacy of construction offered mirror-like references between the two regal structures. Certainly noble minds thought alike. That is to say: grandly.

Such grandeur, as it had among the fairies, left the ogre in a state of awe. And it was with such awe smeared across his face that Grumblethump was able to remain still long enough so that he could be outfitted with collection of grain sacks (procured by Isavol from an unobservant granary along the way) stitched together with twine to form a crude tunic. Tantrifax, the would-be seamstress, stood back to take a last look over his handiwork and remarked, "Elven maidens won't flock to it but it should do."

Pencimyss was quick to retort, "Well this elven maiden will flock to him!" Beaming up at her favorite ogre she added, "I think he looks handsome in his new clothes!"

"Yes, he does," Isavol agreed with a wry grin and followed Grumblethump's gaze to look upon Firdraasmoth's immensity. Standing along the roadside amid open pastures, they were but a short walk to the outermost edge of the village that sprawled forth from the castle walls, but all attention gravitated to the spectacle of the palace, itself. Nudging the ogre slightly so as to gain his ear, the Green Sorceress told him, "They will fear you, sweet hero. Please be careful and keep your hands to yourself. As much as you might wish to be friendly... well... they will not see your intentions. They will see ogre and think hate. I wish it were different but such is the world."

His vision filled by the soaring towers, Grumblethump nodded silently. He did not need to be told about the automatic response of humans to his presence. Had they not had such a reaction to him, he would not have been able to compare Firdraasmoth to the fairy kingdom. Nor might he ever have met Isavol or Tantrifax or his beloved Pencimyss. In the slightest semblance of comprehending the notion of bitter sweet, he smiled.

"We should get moving before the suns fall," the satyr remarked. "The night guard are sure to be less likely to believe our story and more of the opinion ogres should be felled on sight."

"Too true," Isavol answered taking one last glance at Grumblethump's innocently amazed gaze. Then, taking a step forward she instructed, "Put your weapons away... especially that hammer, Grumblethump. I shall lead as Tantrifax takes up the rear. Pencimyss, take your place upon your Grumby's shoulders. And do display your love for him. Appearances shall be the difference between life and death, I fear. 'Twould be best to leave them wondering why an elf shows affection for an ogre rather than dwelling purely upon their fears."

Grumblethump, stirred from his staring by Pencimyss scrambling her way up his leg and into his arms, set the elven child upon one shoulder and smiled at her before realizing Isavol had started towards the village. His first step was hesitant, but with confidence and faith in the Green Sorceress, each following step gained in swiftness. Soon, he was forcing his feet to slow as he shoved fear aside.

“They won't hurt you, Grumby,” Pencimyss declared. “I won't let them.”

Soon enough, they passed the first village hut, its front door and windows wide open. From it came a gasp and a flurry of harsh whispers. By the time they reached the second hut along the roadside, the occupants of the first had stepped out with farm tools ready to become weaponry. Upon reaching the third and fourth huts, the families of the first and second had combined with aggressive curiosity. And so it continued on as the four interlopers continued towards the palace. By the time they had reached the mid-point of their trek to the castle walls, a small horde of frightened villagers were amassed behind them. It was also at this point that a squad of soldiers strode forth to block their progress.

“Halt right there!” the lieutenant commanded, a sword held aloft.

“Good day, swordsman,” Isavol replied politely. “I am Isavol the Green Sorceress, summoned by the king, himself.”

The lieutenant nodded but was quick to return his gaze to the ogre behind Isavol. “Very well, witch. Why has your captive not been chained?” One soldier behind him stepped forward rattling manacles. Grumblethump tensed and everyone else reacted in kind.

Isavol glanced back at Grumblethump, motioning for him to relax with soft lowering hand gestures, and then smiled to the soldier. “I have no captive. These are my friends and cohorts. Among them, the finest and bravest souls ever to walk Hyanthis.”

As if choking on the concept, the lieutenant spat, “The Green Sorceress trucks with an ogre?”

“What are you doing? Kill it!” someone shouted from the gathering mob. An amalgam of agreeing voices resounded immediately after along with the rustle of feet on dirt and the clatter of metal and wood.

Loudly, defiantly but still quite politely, Isavol announced, “Whosoever harms even one wart on my brave compatriot's face will find his abusive self turned into a toad.” The expected gasps and murmuring was ignored as she returned her attention to the soldiers. “Now, as I said, I was called to an audience with the king and do not intend to disappoint His Majesty. As his noble servants, if you would please, accompany us to the palace.”

Now even the soldiers gasped and grumbled. The lieutenant barked, “That thing is not setting foot in the palace of Firdraasmoth! You're quite lucky it still breathes at this very moment. Had you not been recognized, Green Sorceress, I dare say you all would be meeting your ends about now.”

“I'm sure you believe that to be true,” Tantrifax spoke up, stepping out from behind Grumblethump. “But that's because you've never watched this fellow drop a mountain giant all on his lonesome just to save one tiny elf girl.” The satyr glanced up at Pencimyss who nodded with a huff at the soldiers. “Nor have you seen him fend off a small army of mongrelmen without fear for his own safety, just so that his friends... us... might live. Lo, you would do well to amend your thoughts on ogres when it comes to this one, humans. You couldn't ask for a better friend or a more noble warrior. Besides, you won't be tangling just with him. The girl there is likely to send at least one of you to your maker.”

And then the most astonishing thing ever to be witnessed in all the grand history of Firdraasmoth happened. Looking back and down to the ornery satyr with the softest, most genuine smile to ever grace such a terrible face, Grumblethump sighed and from his eye fell a tear. As it splashed upon the trodden road, astonished silence seized the moment as the soldiers of Firdrassmoth knew not what to do.

What is your Tribal name?


About four foot - ten inches.

Banned for Tit-for-Tat

bowling

What goes best with eating paste?


A one way ticket to Siam.

* * *

Silence reigned as the four travelers tried to comprehend their apparent luck while continuing ever northeastward to Firdraasmoth. After some time, the hills gave way to plains and a day or so after that the plains returned to hills. The breeze had grown chilly and gathered in strength as the ground grew harder and the grasses turned a fallow hue. And all the while, the Ice Maw Mountains began to jut from the northern horizon and strike up at the ever-whitening sky. Progress was being made and their lives were well intact, but somehow they were not comforted.

“If the Dark Gods have their Templars, why don't our Gods?” Pencimyss once asked, rather astutely.

Grumblethump, whom she had actually asked, could only shrug. Tantrifax's mouth was filling with cynical words to spew forth in a river of saracasm so Isavol hurriedly spoke, “Well they do, my sweet child of light.” She smiled demurely to the elven lass upon the ogre's shoulder. “You only have to look around you.”

“But you're not Templars. Where's your armor?” Pencimyss noted wryly.

“Perhaps we're not Templars in the strictest sense,” the Green Sorceress explained. “Because we're free to be ourselves; To adorn ourselves as we see fit. But we are here marching to war for a cause we truly believe in, aren't we? And don't we? And besides, we're not the only ones. You'll see. King Tzaemaard's knights should be Templar enough to quell your fears.”

“But a Templar is an holy knight, is he not?” Pencimyss continued, seemingly well-schooled but bent on rooting out an answer to satisfy her youthful tastes. “Is the King a holy man?”

“I wouldn't say that,” Tantrifax finally managed to smear.

Turning a penetrating glare to the satyr, Isavol coyly inquired, “And what would you say?”

“I'd say all the Gods should leave us out of their terrible wars and unending strife. We're just mortals after all. What do our deaths prove to immortal beings anyhow? Who has the most fools in his possession?”

“I would have to agree with you, my noble yet venomously tongued satyr,” Isavol answered, somewhat surprisingly. “But it would seem some mortals are quite keen to take up arms in the name of their patron divinity on their own. A belief that they are right in a world of wrong can be comforting. But under the standard of a god, not all such men honestly fight for that god's sake. Furthermore, I dare say not all of these wars are waged solely on behalf of the gods. There is greed creative enough among mortality to wage a war as theatrical as it is theological.”

“That is why you are the Green Sorceress, Mistress,” Tantrifax smiled, his eyes fixed on the Icy Maws. “Your wisdom is a cleansing fount.”

But just when it all seemed settled and the mood had been lightened, the darling elven girl had to ask, “Didn't they have the same symbols on their shields as Grumby has on his chest? The Dark God symbol? Does that make Grumby a Dark Templar?” Grumblethump looked up at the girl and then down at his chest wondering which tattoo said that. He had not taken the time to look at the shields of the wicked knights in all the confusion. He had been too filled with fear and rage to concern himself over runes which he could not read.

Isavol was struck and hesitated but soon found the words. “Of course he's not. It would seem they marked all of Grumblethump's clan with that symbol. It's nothing more than an heraldry symbol born upon flesh. Certainly it does not touch his heart or his soul.” She could only admit to herself that it worried her.

Aware of the more obvious problems with such a tattoo, Tantrifax noted, “Well it's certain to bring trouble if seen by the humans of Firdraasmoth. But if we leave him outside the gates he'd be spotted by patrols. We should put a shirt on him... or rather a sail. It might make a tunic for someone his size.”

Isavol nodded and Pencimyss squeezed tightly to her hero's neck. Grumblethump could only blink and wonder why the mood had turned glum once again. He'd never worn a shirt before. It might be fun!

Can you name a movie where the extras act as well as the lead?

Choking small horses.

What would one monkey's pet name be for another?

Thingamabobs and whatchamacallits.

Why can't we have nice things?!?!?!

Purple if you're lucky.

Yeah, I wanna thank you [Mr_Grey] for the Spotlight and the comments. It encourages me to try harder and write more.

What will your right arm look like if you keep doing that?

Cheesecake Factory

What's the secret ingredient in your world famous chocolate covered ants?

Quiet Riot

How do you make sure your old lady will be in the mood?

9 out of 10 Dentists

What's condiments go with -anything-?

Plain brown paper bag

* * *

The morning came without event, though the mist that had gathered during the night managed to keep the mystique of the area in tact. Rising from the dewy grass and brewing some tea to go with their breakfast of thistlegrass bread, it wasn't long before the foursome again embarked upon their trek towards civilization. Once again Tantrifax had taken the lead to scout the safest path as Grumblethump had taken the rear position, forming a sort of wall against a sneak attack from the rear. Furthermore, Isavol had solicited the help of a passing air elemental to keep aerial surveillance for added security. Being but a breeze, the ethereal spirit was by no means hard to manage or taxing on Isavol's mystical energies (with which it was bribed) but such an ally was still quite empowering considering their location.

Now, the region through which they marched was by no means enemy territory but rather it was a wide, no-man's land wherein skirmishes between fiefdoms and various tribal races were rather common. Should a band of goblins strike out from their subterranean den to raid a gryphon's nest for eggs or pilfer the livestock from an halfling farm, the Green Sorceress wanted to ensure their small band would not be trapped between such an outfit and their quarry. But of course, when just such a thing, however vaguely similar, occurred, Isavol could only believe she had jinxed the group by dreaming up such an encounter.

The wind howled in a sudden gust decrying to Isavol's ears the arrival of a troop of mongrelmen cresting a hill to the northwest. The dog-like humanoids were well known for traveling in numbers verging on a horde and tales of their vicious, unrelenting ways instilled fear in any being with wits greater than a tree stump. For they did not merely kill their prey. They devoured them.

“Mongrelmen!” the Green Sorceress announced, pointing to their general direction with her wooden staff. Tantrifax turned at once and followed her line of sight until he saw the amorphous shadows shuffling near the horizon. “Eastward!” she commanded and the company turned.

Grumblethump scooped up Pencimyss, as she had been skipping across the grass just ahead of him, and dashed to Isavol's side. Without even a stifled grunt he hauled the woman into his free arm and, much to everyone's amazement, he jumped eastward traveling the length of a galley in but a single leap. Upon landing, his enormous feet pounded solidly into the earth, his knees bent and, like a pressed coil upon its release, sprang upwards again. Another galley's worth of land was traversed and another and another, as he jumped and bounded away from the swarming mongrelmen. Tantrifax was soon alongside the hopping ogre, though remaining afixed to the earth and he believed his feet had never moved faster.

Over one hill and around another, past a fallen tree and then a gurgling creek, they moved as their lives surely depended on speed. Frantic and growing breathless, their path became as erratic as their thoughts. Slicing vaguely eastward through the countryside, their route to Firdraasmoth was being surely abandoned or at least detoured. But still they could only hurl themselves onward. They stood no chance against so many fangs and claws.

With a glance back over his shoulder, Tantrifax believed they had distanced themselves from the mongrelmen enough to have avoided detection. Alas, the single, solid thud of Grumblethump's sudden halt and Pencimyss's shrill shriek returned the satyr's attention to their fore where an equally sizable troop of the savage humanoids stood in wait. They had fallen into a trap.

“Come no further!” Isavol announced from amid Grumblethump's massive bicep. “I am Isavol, the Green Sorceress! I bid you leave us in peace lest you earn my wrath!”

An amalgam of laughter declared their lack of concern over who the human woman was. Their eyes were pinned on the ogre, not the human or the elf or even the satyr. A few of them took some cautious steps forward. Grumblethump scanned their numbers and then turned when the collective footfalls of the original mongrelman group arrived behind them. They were surrounded. Grumblethump roared in futile fury.

As if the ogre's own cry was their cue, they moved in on the foursome in unison. Nipping and snarling and anxiously hopping amongst one another as they formed a ring around the ogre and his friends, they inched ever closer. None of the mongrelmen wanted to be the first to gain the ogre's attention and the ogre himself was unsure of what to do. The tension could not have been more palpable. Certain death in the bellies of brutal beastmen was upon them. As such, Isavol, with no other choice, struck out with a blast of emerald energy that hurled two of the savages into the distance. Tantrifax flung three knives in rapid succession, felling one mongrelman for each blade. The wind picked up suddenly and a tornadic spiral descended from above, snatching up several mongrelmen and hurling them in a myriad of directions. All while Grumblethump could only howl and snarl in return, his arms filled by those whom he loved.

But then came a stillness and a silence that confused the defenders. The mongrelmen had stopped in the very midst of their assault. As if frozen in time, not a single one moved, though the saliva still dripped from their maws. “What is this?” Tantrifax whispered. He wanted so to attack but feared his own movement would restart the inevitable end of his existence.

“There,” Isavol gasped and all eyes followed hers. “It can't be.”

But there they were, just as the breeze had told her. Six mounted warriors, armored from head to toe, brandishing lances and swords and broad shields, lined across a hillock to the east. Upon their shields were smeared the crude rune of the chaos gods; the very same symbol tattooed across the center of Grumblethump's chest. These were Dark Templars. The very enemy that had spurred the Green Sorceress into action, leaving the safety of her tower and striking out across the wilderness.

Eyes affixed to the mounted knights of damnation, the four defenders were startled to hear the rustle of movement from the small horde encircling them. But, much to their amazement and eventual relief, the horde was moving away. Disengaging what was certain victory and a hardy, ogrynn meat meal, the mongrelmen began to back away from their victims. Isavol was stunned by disbelief. What were the Templars up to?

“Stay ready,” she instructed her fellows. “These vermin might be on their way but the Dark Templars do not retreat.” Yes, she thought. The Templars want the glory of felling the Green Sorceress for themselves. But her vanity would be checked. For once the mongrelmen had retreated to a safe distance, they broke away entirely and moved off between two hills. This left only the unholy knights and their snorting steeds, who, just as silently as they had arrived, turned and disappeared behind the hill upon which they had stood. The foursome, having just been surrounded by an army of ravenous, man-eating monstrosities and a squadron of Dark Templars, were suddenly and completely alone. They had inexplicably survived the insurvivable. And it did not sit well in their stomachs.

What's the National Past-Time of the Nation of Cyclopsia?

Pigeon-holed

Who was the first comic character to die of bill cancer?


One drunk sailor and a huge bowl of spaghetti