The Tower of Tall Tales ~The Story
In an inhospitable land far away, or so the poets say, there once stood a tower, tall and solitary, near the sea. Where did it come from? None could say. How long had it stood there? Your guess is as good as mine. How tall was it? No one seemed to agree on its size. Some even claimed that it grew every day.
In Tall Dike, a fishing village that had developed not far
from the tower, all agreed that the immense structure had been there when the
village was founded. But it was a place drenched in superstition. People
claimed that those who had dared to attempt to reach its summit were never seen
again. As such, children were warned to never go near it. Naturally this
birthed an air of mystery that they found hard to resist and in every
generation young boys would dare each other to climb the stairs to the end. The
furthest they came were the seven steps of the staircase that led to its front
door.
One day all of that changed.
~-~
“Give it to him boys! Teach him to not reach above his own
standing!”
On the outskirts of Tall Dike a group of four young boys was
roughing up a fifth under the spirited encouragement of another. Sadly, it was
a sight all too common.
“Leave me alone!” The victim cried.
They did not. “How dare you, Grantan! You want to be an
adventurer? You’ll never be more than a fisherman’s son!” They yelled as they
continued shoving the boy around.
“I can be whatever I want to be!” The boy protested. “As
long as I have the courage to try!”
“Really?! You’re not better than us!”
“At least I’m not a coward like you; ganging up on me just
to beat me up.”
Suddenly the beating stopped. The assailants walked away.
One of them turned around and yelled. “If you’re so brave, why don’t you climb
the tower?!”
“You know what?! I will!”
~-~
The next day, at the break of dawn, a short figure, with a
heavy woolen cloak around his shoulders and a pack on his back climbed the
seven steps to the front door of the imposing structure. Once there, Grantan
looked up. The sky was in that strange state between dark and light. A few
stars still tarried in the sky under the disapproving look of the fading
moonlight, but in the east a pale light was slowly growing brighter. He
swallowed. The dark and rough stones that seemed to go one forever were enough
to make him pause.
He took deep breaths, exhaling in puffs. He paced back and
forth. From the door back to the steps; then to the door again, and back to the
stairs where he stopped.
“Why can’t I do it?” the boy sniffled. His shoulders shook
while he stood frozen.
His only answer was the wind that howled through the windows
on the upper levels and brought to his ears the lonely cries of seagulls. The
sand of the dunes was whipped up by the very same wind and he heard the gentle
lapping from the waves on the other side.
The boy stood silent for a moment, his tears rolling down
his cheeks. After a while they stopped. Grantan raised his knuckles to his face
and wiped the salty lines away that ran from his eyes to his chin. “I’ll show
them,” he said. A strange and sudden light shone in his eyes. He straightened
his spine, took a deep breath and turned around. “I’ll show them,” he repeated.
He walked up to the rough, yet weatherworn door and pushed against it with all
his might. It creaked ominously as it turned on its rusty hinges. “I’ll show
them,” the boy whispered. He entered.
~-~
Grantan had no idea how long he had been climbing. It could
have been days, weeks, months or even years. Every time he reached a new level
he looked around the rooms he found. But he saw nothing there but cabinets and
shelves filled to the brim with books. Books upon books upon books. Some were
thick and leather-bound; others were merely a stack of paper bound together.
Others had a strange bark like cover.
Having never held a book before, the boy wasn’t particularly
interested.
After twenty floors that had all looked the same, Grantan
had started wondering whether there was anything interesting at all in the
tower. He had noticed that he didn’t feel tired at all. Even after climbing all
of those stairs. And so, he had climbed on. He had lost count of the flights of
stairs, but … he had climbed on.
When the boy reached a floor whose main room was barred by a
door, he was stunned. That was new. He looked at the doorknob. The reddish
brown had started turning blueish green in some spots. Would he dare? He
shrugged. Could it be more thrilling than what he had seen so far? He turned
the knob and pushed the door inward. Strangely enough it moved smoothly.
At the far end of the room there was a lantern. And in its
reddish glow he saw a figure sitting at what appeared to be a large table.
“Ahh, finally. Someone has made it up here.” The voice was
hoarse and cracked from the little use it had gotten throughout time. Without
turning around, the man said, “Come closer boy.”
Grantan tiptoed closer. He could not explain it, but he felt
drawn. Once he stood beside the man he noticed two things. First, the man
seemed as old as the sea. Maybe even older. His long, snow white hair hung
halfway down his back and an equally long beard rested in his lap. The second
thing he noticed was that his right hand never stopped moving. It moved back
and forth on an endless piece of paper.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Grantan.”
“Grantan … Grantan?” the man mumbled to himself. “Ah yes.
Yours is a vast collection. I still have to start on them. And so should you, otherwise
you’ll never be done in time. It would be a shame.”
The boy was stupefied. He did not know what to answer.
Instead he let the silence build until his curiosity got the better of him. “What
are you doing?” he asked softly as he stared at the pen racing across the
paper.
“Writing down stories.” The man replied without looking up
from his work.
“What stories?” the boy looked on in fascination as the
lines of ink came together.
“All of them.” An aura appeared around the man. And … the
lines on the paper started to move on their own. They formed figures that took
off and before Grantan’s eyes mountains appeared and plains. He saw jungles and
deserts. And a wide landscape that sparkled in the light of the sun. He saw all
manner of animals and creatures. He recognized horses, foxes, eagles, dolphins
and what must have been whales tumbling out of the waves. He thought he saw a
lion. And then there were so many shapes he did not recognize. Some with large
wings. Some seemed like several animals put together. And he saw cities and
settlements in all of the landscapes. From graceful structures underneath and
even in the boughs of the trees to large stone structures in and even under
mountains. He even saw cities floating in the sky. And in them he saw people. Working,
traveling, exploring, loving and adventuring.
Grantan looked on for what seemed an eternity before he was shocked from his reverie. “Well, go on boy. These stories don’t write themselves you know?” the old man chuckled.
Grantan smiled and left the old man to his work. At the door he turned back once. “Thank you,” he whispered. Then he descended the stairs. A boy had entered the tower to climb the stairs. A man had come out. He left the village and he never looked back.
What became of the boy, you ask?
Well. I am still growing. My stories are still unfolding. Will I create all the stories the old man prophesied I could? Who knows? But I’m going to give it my all and try!
The Tower of Tale Tales ~Hall of Fame
The very best that the project has to offer since my last selection. Handpicked by yours truly; each one qualified for their own reasons. Whether for their uniqueness, success with the ig-community, potential for extension into a novella or the creator’s biased taste – or all of the above – these stories will have you wonder which ones almost made the cut.
Click the title to get the full experience of narrative combined with art on my ig-page. While you’re there, give me a like and leave me your honest thoughts in the comment section. I’m always happy to hear what my audience thinks and it really helps me combat that pesky ig algorithm.
The Tower of Tale Tales ~Hall of Fame
The very best that the project has to offer since my last selection. Handpicked by yours truly; each one qualified for their own reasons. Whether for their uniqueness, success with the ig-community, potential for extension into a novella or the creator’s biased taste – or all of the above – these stories will have you wonder which ones almost made the cut.
If you want the full experience, the narrative and the atmosphere of the art, click the title to read the story on my ig-page. While you’re there, give me a like and leave me your honest thoughts in the comment section. I’m always happy to hear what my audience thinks and it really helps me combat that pesky ig algorithm.
There is no such thing as the wrong color
The little brown-skinned girl could hardly see more than a few feet in front of her for the small streams that ran from her eyes. Her little stuffed up runny nose could not tell her that she had left the city behind her. The fresh scent of wild lilies and orchids were lost on her as she ran through undergrowth underneath the moss and fern covered bows of the tall trees. More than once she stumbled over roots and stones, scraping her knees and hands in the process. Each time it happened it triggered a new outbreak of sobs. After one particularly nasty fall, she decided to not get up.
“Why?!” Her cries disturbed the otherwise peaceful park. “Why momma, why?!” her body heaved as the water kept running from her eyes and she sniffled and snorted.
She felt a warm body settle down next to her. A warm, blue-coloured furry head gently nudged her tear-streaked face. It was followed by a broad and rough pink tongue that softly scraped the salty rivers from her cheeks. “Oh Iris,” the creature rumbled. “Whatever’s the matter, my kit?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Panpoc.”
“It might make you feel better.”
“No, it won’t.”
They lay quiet after that. Side by side.
Suddenly the panther leapt to his feet. “I know what will make you feel better.” He crouched, ready to pounce. His tail, odd for any catlike animal, was a bush of the most beautiful peacock’s tail feathers. They were fanned out as he shook his rump playfully. He poked Iris in her side with one of his oversized paws. “Catch me!” he jumped back. “Catch me and I’ll give you some of my feathers!”
They chased each other to their hearts’ content. Running and rolling. Climbing and tumbling. Joyful laughter filled the park.
At the end of the day, when the last rays of the sun filtered through the trees like a golden curtain, it found Iris and her colourful friend on a tree branch. The girl sported a headdress of the most beautiful peacock feathers. She was petting her companion, whose resulted purring was of a deep timbre. Iris asked, “Are you the wrong colour, Panpoc?”
“Whatever makes you ask such a silly question?”
“Well, other panthers are yellow and have black spots. Do they chase you away? Do they hurt you?”
“Not anymore. Why do you ask, little kit? Has someone hurt you?”
Iris was quiet for a few heartbeats. Then she told her friend everything. About the pale man who had come to momma’s shop, screaming. Calling her names, even slapping her. And no one had done anything. When the people had left she had asked her momma why. Why had the man slapped her? Why had no one done anything to stop him? “My momma said that some people think others have the wrong colour. That’s why they are mean to them.” The little girl in the now mud-stained dress hugged the big cat. “I don’t want to live in a place where people are like that, Panpoc.”
The panther with the peacock tail feathers draped one of his powerful paws around her back, hugged her close and said, “I want you to remember one very important thing, kit. In this wonderfully diverse world, there is no wrong colour. White, yellow, red, blue, green or black. Stripes or spots. There is no wrong colour. Angry people will always find an excuse to hurt others. But you must not let them. It is up to us to say no! It is up to us to demand the respect we deserve. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Panpoc,” Iris said in a small voice.
“Good! Now run home to your mother. And tell her there is no such thing as a wrong color!”
Philocteian, or Phil as his friends called him, was driving his cart home from the market in Nihilopolis.
He made the trip every week to sell the produce of his modest farm. Much like on previous trips, he kept himself busy on his way home, contemplating. On life, the world, humanity. The sense of it all.
Usually he enjoyed this sparse moment of self-reflection. He knew who he was and he liked his place in the grand scheme. Seeing people in the marketspace he knew. Exchanging news and pleasantries as they provided the populace with what they needed for their next meals.
Stories. They tied people together.
But today was different.
As he took in the immense figure of Sisyphus he wondered. What was life but rolling a boulder up a hill only for it to roll of the other side having to start over again. Or, even worse, to find out another larger hill was waiting behind it that, for some reason, also needed to be conquered.
The same actions every day in order to “live”. People tell themselves that they take a different route every day and so there is some diversity. Besides, they like their rock. He had to admit to himself that he could not imagine himself being anything but the farmer he is.
Still, is that all there is to it? Some rock and a hill? And who was the greater fool? Him for enjoying his routine? The one who abhorred his rock and hill, but kept pushing anyway? Or the one who refused to push, but stared in turn at the rock and the hill and the immense sky above without taking any action?
Are there actually people who cursed their rock, turned around and walked away? Is there a way out as the hooded man in the marketplace had professed? What is true? What is permitted?
He didn’t know. Maybe he would never know.
Dust swirled ‘round the Arena. The crowd roared as the fallen were carried away. Victors raised their arms and basked in the adulation.
One fight was still going on. No conclusive hits had been made thus far. The fighters were skilled beyond question. The way their blades swung and their bodies moved; a deadly dance that had most spectators entranced.
Ahearn feinted as he stalked his masked opponent. This fight he could not afford to lose. Opening upon opening he saw, but he dared not take it. What if it was a trap?
After another flurry of blows, he gambled and struck.
A pained cry pierced him as no blade had.
That voice! Ahearn rushed to his fallen foe and gently removed the mask to see the very face he had been fighting for. “You promised! You swore she would be free if I triumphed in the Arena!”
Scornful laughter rang throughout the stadium. “Isn’t she? Tell me, Ahearn, what freedom is as unconquerable as that provided by Death’s sweet kiss.”
Ahearn’s hands holding her gentle face trembled. His gaze grew misty as it fell on the weapon that slew her.
He made his choice.
~
Home. He felt it underneath him. No more swirling dust. Just grass. Soft, springy grass. He stood up and beheld it. Gentle rolling hills in the distance and between him and them, an endless emerald sea swaying in the wind under a swift sunset.
A woman approached. Riding a horse at a canter. She slowed to a trot before stopping in front of him. “You idiot.” Her smile as sweet as the day of their promise. “I gave you your life and what do you do?”
“You knew?”
“Of course. No warrior ever to enter that stadium moved as graceful as you.”
“So all those openings?” He shook his head. “He was never going to let me go, Étaín,” he whispered.
She tilted her head. “Maybe not.”
“This way freedom is ours.” He reached up, jumped and swung into the saddle behind her.
She embraced him with her one hand, gave him a soft kiss and handed him the reigns with the other.
“Let’s go home.” They rode towards the hills. An eternal journey… at the end.
The Sacrifice; The Job Interview
The swamp had been quiet ever since they had left her. A mere morsel on a bed of ferns. They were soft underneath her feet, but below them, she felt the rough texture of bark.
She thought it would be fitting to leave the world as she had spent most of her days in it. Alone.
And yet … She shivered. The impudent hands of the mists explored her exposed skin piece by piece, leaving it riddled with miniature bumps.
Then, the growling that had driven her escort away resumed. It came closer and closer.
Sondrea started shaking like a leaf.
And then a huge scaly head broke through the thick curtain of the swamp. “Good day.”
She closed her eyes, planted her feet, jutted out her chest and said, “Do it! End it.”
Nothing happened. She counted to sixty and found the rough bark still ribbing the soles of her feet. She carefully cracked an eye open to see the dragon eyeing her up and down from all angles. His loud breath warmed her. When he noticed her looking he cocked his head. “Why do you think you are here?”
“You … you’re not going to eat me?”
“Eat?” He looked at her with wide eyes. Doing a double-take of her young nude body. “Whatever for? Do you know how many of you I’d have to eat to have a proper meal?” He chuckled as he shook his head. “Eat you.”
“But the message. You demanded a pure maiden for a sacrifice.”
“Is that why you’re before me in nought but your skin? I thought you just felt more comfortable that way. Honestly. Intermediaries. They never get my words right. I said I had a demand for a pure soul who I’d make my aid. The person would have to sacrifice most of their lifetime, but the benefits would be excellent.”
“And despite their mix-up, you are here before me.” The dragon stared at her intensely before humming. “Hmm, you might do. Just stay put here. I’ll be in touch.” The scaly head retreated into the opaque curtain, leaving a speechless Sondrea behind.
What had just happened?
Graduation day at the Multiverse Magisterium! Francis was glad that it had finally come. Slightly stooped forward, he grunted as he struggled to carry all the ingredients needed for the final ritual he would perform as an undergrad. It was time to summon his familiar!
He tried to keep his white-collared shirt and khaki shorts clean while he worked. The inverted pentagram and sigils needed to be painted with precision.
Leaning against the opposite wall he appraised his handiwork. His summoning circle was immaculate. The items were arranged and the candles were lit. Perfection!
He started muttering the incantation and smoke started to billow from the candles. Please be something cool, he thought. Something powerful.
When the smoke cleared he saw a five foot three, pink-haired daemon. A set of wings grew from her shoulders and she wore something that looked picked from a pinup magazine. She stretched her arms while arching her back. “Ahhh, yes Lilah. You’re finally free!” she exclaimed. “What nearly 4000 years in Purgis will do to you, eh? Now, where is the dope that… YOU?! YOU SUMMONED ME?!”
“Eh, I … guess? I mean. I was hoping …”
“For what?! A succubus with bigger …”
“… for something else,” Francis finished his stammering.
“YOU WHAT?!” With a thunderous BANG, the succubus slammed her hands into the wall behind Francis. It cracked audibly.
Francis trembled. Shoulders hunched and head bent, he tried to avoid staring at the pink-haired daemon’s chest.
“Well, I guess I’ll just have to serve you,” She slid her hand upwards along the inside of his leg, “to complete satisfaction.” A sultry look appeared on the daemon’s face, only to quickly make way to one of utter astonishment. “WHAT?! WHY?”
“I don’t like… I mean… I’m not attracted… to women.”
The hallway remained deadly silent for five seconds. Then, with a face so red it clashed with her pink hair, Lila roared and shrieked at the top of her lungs. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME!”
A deep airy growl echoes throughout the cavernous halls. Draecun blinks lazily. Scratching under his chin he repositions himself and lays his handsome head on one of his powerful limbs.
A rustling sound fills the cavern as he does so. Millions and millions of pages turn. Hundreds upon hundreds of stacks of books tumble as his breath bids them to move.
Oh, but the current state of the world is a nasty one, he contemplates. Still, his hoard did feel more comfortable to lie on then his mother’s ever did. And it did provide him with some amusement. If only his trusted servant were present.
At that moment the sound of footsteps draws Draecun’s attention. Opening his eyes he sees a tall projection enter his home.
He chuckles. If she really were that tall, their roles might be reversed. He shakes his head at the strange thought. Must be all those stories getting to him. Wondering about the impossible is not a normal pastime for a dragon. And yet …
“Gabi! You know I dislike you leaving for more than two days at a time! Do you have any idea how hard it is to turn pages with these?!” He wiggles the claws on his front leg.
The shadow rushes forward, the young woman following drops to her knees. “I’m sorry Draecun…”
“LORD DRAECUN!” He grumbles.
“Lord Draecun,” She bows her head. “I just had a hard time tracking down the tome you requested.”
“But you did find it?” He raises his head and looks at the frail human with renewed interest.
Gabi smiles. “I did. I even found some additional sequels.”
“Oh you wickedly, wonderful wench!” A throaty rumbling rings through the cave. “Waiting out the Metal Sickness would have been quite a bother without you. We dragons don’t do well in isolation. We get bored. And when we do…”
Gabi trembles at the loud gnashing sound coming from Draecun’s maw. “Shall I read for you know, lord Draecun?”
“Hmm, you may. And afterwards you will catalogue all the newest additions to my … collection.”
~The improvised continuation to this tale can be found on my instagram page~
They’re fighting again. Why are they always mad? I slip out of my bed and down the stairs. I know which ones crack. I skip over them easily. I go down, past the kitchen we share with aunt and uncle. Down to the hallway. I open the door and step outside.
I walk down the stone steps and look up at the blue sky. It’s filled with soft clouds. Softer than my pillow. If only it was closer.
“It is as close as you want it to be, Allen.”
I look around. No one is there.
“Just take off. You can do it.”
I bend my legs. I feel something strange in them. An odd pressure and clenching.
I jump and, faster than a rocket I am sure, I find myself in the sky. I feel the warm sun as I fly through the sky.
~
I’m surrounded just as I step outside of the school grounds. They’re all there. All of them. From kindergarten to eighth grade.
“Nowhere to run now, Eric!”
“You know what we’re going to do to you, now that we finally caught you?”
I look at them one by one. They were too many. But I planned to take at least three with me to the school nurse.
“You can take them all, you know. You have the strength. Trust.”
I’m surprised. I know the voice is right. I raise my hands and, like bowling pins, my tormenters go tumbling.
As I walk on, the pavement cracks beneath my feet. The schoolbus tries to block my way. I send it flying. Nothing can stop me.
~
Drip, drip, drip.
With a smile on my face, I open my eyes to see a grey light creeping in through a cracked window. It passes over our floor. I recognise our play mat and our cars on it. As the rainstorm outside plays the house like an instrument I remember the pressure in my legs as I take off. And then … freedom. “Eric,” I whisper. I look up and carefully poke the mattress above me between the wooden slats. “Eric. Are you awake?”
Drip, drip, drip.
“What is it, Al?” Eric looks at the bucket suspended above his head. It would be almost full now.
“You will never guess what I have dreamt!”
He grins. “I bet it wasn’t as awesome as my dream!”
In the corner of the room, a few toy cars start moving.
“Another!”
A heavy thud makes the bar shake briefly. A handful of coins bounces up, and upon remembering gravity, comes jingling down. A mercurial flash flits over the counter and they are gone. Retrieved by my finance assistant.
It’s a busy night. Gruff voices are all around.
I pick up a tankard I could bathe in, position it carefully and open the tap. The dark amber pours down with a thirsty sound. More orders come in.
As I deftly position a few more tankards on the belt of my fillomatictm, I see a hand that could easily cover my entire head snatch some of my salted fire beans. A crunching sound is quickly followed by a new voice. Not one of my regulars.
“Where is my blasted drink. These things could burn a hole in my throat.”
A familiar voice answers, “Patience, Kornakh.” It’s Jakhar.
Pumping my muscles, I lift their drinks onto the bar.
“It’s like magic,” I hear the newcomer grunt in surprise. He must not have seen my tiny hands underneath his tankard.
A second later, a bald and scarred face appears over the counter. The beady eyes go wide, stretching the scar on the side of his face taut.
“Yes?”
A thunderous laughter suddenly erupts from the mountain of muscle.
“Did you just remember a funny joke?”
In between his laughing fit he manages to say, “No. It’s…”
Before he can say more, Jakhar grasps his upper arm and shakes his head.
But Kornakh picks up an empty tankard and places it over my head. It sinks to the floor covering me entirely. “Ha! I knew it!” This time the raucous laughter is accompanied by a heavy pounding on the bar.
I explode, much like the wooden straitjacket around me. “You think my size is funny?!” I jump onto the bar, the blood pounding in my ears. “You and me! Outside! Right now!”
The laughter intensifies.
I stomp to the door and rip it straight from its hinges. “Right now, barbaric coward!”
“Very well.” He empties his tankard in a few gulps and follows me, chuckling.
His chuckles died on the streets. You don’t run the most successful Orc Bar without knowing how to command their respect.
I could hear their whispers from across the reception of the guild headquarters.
“That must be the fifteenth troll subjugation quest I’ve seen her take. Just this week!”
Twentieth. But hey, who’s counting?
“Where are her party members? Surely she doesn’t go after them alone?”
Eh, sure I do. Increases the fun.
“Does she have a thing against trolls?”
Do I have a thing against trolls? Let me see …
I HATE TROLLS! Why? Do I need a reason? They are loud, brutish, bloodthirsty, obnoxious butchers that live solely to make prey on defenceless travellers and pioneers of the wilderness!
Enough reasons? No? How about this one? They killed my parents!
Without sparing any of the wallflowers a glance, I left; my favourite type of quest assigned to me. Greaves tied to my calves, chest encased in the finest mithril plate armour. Troll Carver at my waist; lance in hand and shield slung across my back.
~
I had stalked the monsters painstakingly. A war band of ten. They stood no chance.
I focussed my energy and let the rage build … and build. My muscles taut as a bowstring and my weapons suffused with mana I unleashed the storm within.
Eyes were pierced. Throats opened. Limbs severed.
I know what it must have looked like. A single lean cat taking out a den of dire wolves.
Leaping and pouncing. Bobbing and weaving. Lance striking as fast as lightning. As the clubs and hammers sought to crush.
Then the lance splintered. But the dance of death was not over. Four trolls remained armed with greatswords.
I drew Troll Carver, unslung my shield and started carving.
~
In the end, it is all gone. The boiling rage that hones my senses sharper than a razor has quieted.
I sit down and take stock of the scratches adorning my arm, shoulder and thighs. Did they hit me?
I stare in the void.
Gone are the butchers. Only one remains.
“I’ve brought you your appetisers, my lord.”
“Excellent! And what might these delicacies be called?” Temtorn the Tyrannical looked down at his sole subject. He thought himself particularly wise that he had ‘hired’ someone to see to his culinary needs.
“Sheep, your magnificence.”
“Sheep. Hmm.” The huge dragon licked his chops. “Sounds like a perfect name for these plump little starters.”
Without pause, he started ripping into the white and fluffy collection of animals. Panicked bleating rang throughout the forest. The man looked on with wide eyes. His nails bit deeply into his palms, wishing he could drown out the tragic noise.
The dragon tore and bit and swallowed. Not long after he started though he paused. A puzzled look on his face. He felt around in his considerably large jaws using an equally impressive appendage. He frowned as he started growling.
“You idiot! What … what is this terrible stuff?! It’s not edible at all! It sticks between the teeth quite infuriatingly! Why are these … sheep covered in such horrible packaging?”
The man in front of him started shaking. “I … I’m so … so … sorry, oh Magnanimous employer of mine. You did not give me time to properly prepare…”
“I did not give you time?!” The dragon bellowed, snapping entire trees in half by mere snaps of his sturdy tail. “You should have the insight to prepare them properly before bringing them before me!”
The man’s pants suddenly got quite moist as he seemed to do his best imitation of a clump of reeds on a, particularly windy day. He squeaked, “It is as you say, Master of Majesty.”
“You little worm! Why do I even keep you around?!”
“To bring you more delicacies?”
The dragon roared. “You have spoilt my mood! I have a mind to go and find my own delicacies! If you know what I mean.” He climbed to the top of an immense tree and opened his wings. “When I get back, you better be here to clean my teeth!”