Tag: medieval

Wyvern

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Every week, the townspeople bring meat to my cave.
Sacrifices to the dragon, they say. Keep him from burning our village, like in ancient times.
I laugh.
I am no fire-breathing dragon.
I’m a wyvern.
I don’t breathe fire. Sure, my tail has a deadly sting, but it’s not like fire.
I wear the long-deceased dragon’s snout as a mask. The townsfolk feed me at night. That helps with the disguise.
When a champion comes uphill to slay the dragon, taking off the mask
gives me a few moments of surprise.
Enter sting, exit champion.
The freshest meat of all.

Invulnerable

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Lord Bragdor’s armor stands in the Hall Of Heroes, as shiny as the day he was speared through the face in a jousting tournament.
“It was enchanted with an invulnerability spell,” said the Hall’s custodian, The Blue Wizard. “But, his visor was loose and his opponent very lucky.”
“Wouldn’t the lance have been knocked aside by the spell?” asked his apprentice Morstrawl.
“If the invulnerability had been meant for Lord Bragdor, yes,” said Blue. “But due to my misreading the spellbook, it was the armor that was invulnerable.”
The apprentice nodded, realizing why he had never had to polish it.

Three Miles

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Ever walk a mile with a sword stuck through your chest?
I have. Three times.
The first time was when I got into a fight with The Ninja Master.
He was the best swordsman in all of Japan.
So how did I beat him?
I’m not from Japan.
I’m the best in the world.
Not by much – his head flew off as his sword struck home.
Missed every vital organ.
I walked the mile to my master’s house.
“I told you: bring me his head,” he growled.
I had to walk back to get it.
And then, back again.

Salad Bar

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The two kings were bitter rivals.
One marries a beautiful woman, the other marries one more beautiful.
One gets a fast horse, the other gets one faster.
Castles. Armies. Jesters.
Always one-upping each other.
Then came the salad bars.
This time, neither would back down. For miles, each one stretched across the rolling hills.
One added to their salad bar. Then the other.
Back and forth.
Until they met at the border.
The greatest salad bar of all time.
The two kings gave up their rivalry and became friends.
That’s when a third king’s army invaded and killed them all.

Fee Fie Foe Fucked

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Jack didn’t realize his mistake until he’d chopped through the beanstalk.
The giant was directly above his farm.
And falling. Really fast.
Gold coins couldn’t buy his way out of this one.
The goose’s goose was cooked.
And the magic harp began to play a mournful dirge as the shadows grew darker and darker.
The giant was falling face-down, and when he saw the look on Jack’s face, he roared with laughter.
“FEE FIE FO FUM!” was the last thing the giant shouted, and the last thing Jack heard.
Jack’s wife, asleep, didn’t feel a thing.
“Magic beans,” she mumbled.

The End

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“Tell me a story, my beloved,” said the king, “Or the sun will shine over your headless corpse.”
Scheheradze smiled and recited the same story she’d told every night for the past three years.
The king was cruel, yes, but also senile.
He woke up every morning, free from memory of the day before.
So, when he’d ask for a story, it was always new to him.
Just once, she grew tired and changed it.
“Why did you change the story?” he said.
She was confused… frightened. He… knew?
He was laughing as she buried a dagger in his chest.

Strewn at his feet

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It is a rule of the royal palace that everywhere our liege walks, rose petals must be strewn at his feet.
Sadly, the roses were killed by unexpected frost, and it will be months before new blooms can grow.
Our master lays in bed, tied up and angry.
“All I want to do is walk to the bathroom,” he growls.
“No,” I say. “We have no roses to strew at your feet. We must carry you.”
He sighs. He knows that he is no more important than the office, and with the office comes rules.
We tighten the ropes.

The Bard

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We locked up the bard for his own safety.
If the king heard these nonsense rhymes, he’d certainly cut off his head.
I mean, here’s an example of his madness:
When an elephant coughs and sneezes.
It bends and falls to all four kneeses.
It wipes its trunk on what it pleases.
Then coughs things up in wheezes.
Bugs and germs upon the breezes.
Covered with disgusting fleases.
It’s how they spread such bad diseases.
Until the cough and sneezes eases.
The king is fond of his elephant herd, and to insult them in such a manner is certain death.

Yorick

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The old jester imagined that he would be telling jokes in court to laughing royalty, screwing maids in the barn, and dining on the best of what the castle’s kitchen had to offer.
Instead, he had a mouth full of mud and his back ached from the weight of the young prince.
“Horsey!’ shouted Hamlet.
Yorick groaned with each kick to his ribs.
At first, it was a delight. But with each passing week of being a plaything, Yorick grew weary.
Yorick never did get the laughter, maids, or feasts.
He died a broken man, a feast for the worms.

Dictator

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The townspeople got word that the country’s dictator, after many years of ruling with an iron fist, had died overnight.
There were celebrations, cries of freedom, and they threw together an effigy of Old General Montcastle for burning.
Then, they looked around and realized things really hadn”t been all that bad with Montcastle running things.
They put the effigy in the town square and started to pile up flowers at its feet, turning it into a memorial of sorts.
Montcastle’s son got word of the memorial and said “Collect the flowers, but we’re still burning the place to the ground.”