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The Chronicle of Heloise and Grimple – A Serial Adventure (Part 1)

Hey, hey, hey—FREE STORIES!

Writing time being at a minimum these days, I thought I’d add yet another project to my plate (if I was half as smart as I am stupid, I’d be pretty dumb). So, I present to you an experiment in serialized storytelling—the idea is that I’ll release a piece of the story, offer options for which way the story can go at the end of each installment, and solicit reader feedback on which they prefer. Then, guided by the savvy masses, I will endeavor to write the next installment, and so on and so forth.

Whether this keeps going depends on whether anyone actually wants to read it, so please do voice your thoughts in the comments section below if you want to read more (otherwise, Part 2 may begin with the caption “Because you demanded it—the end of Heloise and Grimple!” (to steal a line from the cover of the epic final issue of Team America)).

My hope is that this will be a fun, rollicking fantasy adventure that you’ll want to share with your friends. With that said, and without further ado, let’s get to it…


All’s Well That Begins Well

“Let me get this straight—we need to go into the Cave of Doom, pass through the Chamber of the Seven Horrors (mustn’t forget the ‘the’), navigate the Endless Corridor of the Eternal Darkness, swim across the Lake of the Burning Hellfire, climb the Never-Ending Staircase of the Eternal Ascent, and defeat the Undying Undead Dracolich of Death (no ‘the’ there, one assumes) to retrieve your beloved daughter?”

“Yes, yes, exactly!”

“Hmmm. Right. So, if we do that, we’ll get what, exactly?” I did very convincing things, like stroke my chin and look pensive, so that the guy would think I was actually considering this suicide mission. I wasn’t.

“My, ah, undying gratitude?” The man wrung his hat in his hand, looking sheepish.

“And…?” I raised an eyebrow. A raised eyebrow, when used properly, is a powerful gesture—sardonic, yet still classy. Not unlike myself.

“But…my daughter…you’d have my undying gratitude!!” The man really tried to sell it with that double exclamation point.

I shook my head and let out a slow, deliberate sigh. I’m very good at looking remorseful. It’s a useful talent when it comes to negotiating with morons who need adventurers to go on quests. “Look, Mr…”

“Tallos,” said the man, helpfully.

“Tallos. Right. Look, Mr. Tallos…it’s not that my partner and I don’t want to save your daughter from the dracolich—because we do, I assure you—it’s just that the undertaking of this sort of quest is generally best handled by a party of three. And, as you can see, we are only two.” I pointed toward my companion, a sickly looking gnome, who nodded sagely and coughed. “You see, there are certain protocols in questing, and the Rule of Three…well, clearly, you can tell by the capitalization that it’s a very important Rule.”

“Is it?”

“It is. Why, if we were to undertake the quest and violate that rule, I shudder to think of the consequences.”

“What would happen?” Mr. Tallos blinked.

“Oh, all sorts of terrible things.” I clapped my hands together for emphasis, and to buy myself a moment to think of those terrible things. “Well, your daughter would certainly be eaten. And then there would be the plagues of demons. And all of the starving. From the crops that failed, of course. Not to mention the bunions. Oh, the bunions we would all get!” I leaned in close. “Truthfully, Mr. Tallos…the best thing my partner and I can do for your daughter is not rescue her. We’ll all be better off.” I tapped the side of my temple in what I hoped was a knowing manner.

“Not rescue her…?” Mr. Tallos blinked again. The poor man’s brain was clearly addled.

“There’s a good man—glad you understand. Not everyone so readily grasps the intricate logic of questing, you know.” I patted him on the shoulder, stepped back, and hoisted my pack over my shoulder. “We’ll be off, then. Best of luck to you, Mr. Tallos. And to your daughter.” I bowed.

“Oh…okay,” I heard Mr. Tallos mutter as Grimple and I mounted our horses and rode away from the village.

“Well,” I said after about 15 minutes of relaxed cantering. “That was a less profitable venture than I’d hoped.”

Grimple shrugged and coughed again.

“You know, this enchantment you’re under is proving to be something of an impediment to our ability to get decent quests.” Grimple was not, in fact, a gnome, nor was he in any way sickly, but a vindictive illusionist had cast a spell on him to alter his appearance (apparently permanently, much to my chagrin, though, to be fair, probably more to Grimple’s chagrin). In reality, he is a perfectly healthy hill giant. I’ll note that hill giants are hardly the most intellectually gifted of giantkin, though Grimple was smarter than most, but the enchantment had also stolen Grimple’s voice. So, while he retained his incredible strength, stamina, and fighting skill, he could not explain those facts to anyone, and few people, given the fact that Grimple looked as though he might communicate the deadliest sort of plague simply by standing near someone, were willing to give us the opportunity to show them what Grimple could do. The fact that he’d lost his club, an impressive weapon as long as a man and twice as wide (there’s a joke in there somewhere that a lesser woman wouldn’t be able to resist, but I’m no lesser woman), in a card game the day before getting hit with the enchantment didn’t help—if he’d been able to swing that about, people might have at least given us the benefit of the doubt, despite his appearance. Everyone loves a man swinging his big club around, right?

As it stood, however, we were reduced to seeking quests similar to the one we had just declined—high risk, low (or no) reward. Admittedly, they’re the kind of quests that make for good stories, but only if you survive them. And, given that I’m much better suited to telling stories than starring in them, I prefer to stick to the low-risk kind of adventure.

Grimple reached across his mount and tapped me on the leg with his pitiful staff, a poor replacement for his lost club that would have looked like a toothpick in his hands under normal circumstances. He raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the horizon.

“I don’t know. We’re not going to get any decent work with you looking like that, and we don’t have enough liquid assets to pay a wizard to remove the spell.” I shook my head. “We’ll have to push on to Bristow. I’ll sing for supper and rooms, and then we can figure out a plan.”

I’m a bard, incidentally—a traveling minstrel and storyteller—and a very good one at that. My voice is a lilting soprano, my songs and stories of the most exciting kind (many of them written by me, I might add, some of which are based on my adventures with Grimple…liberally embellished, perhaps, but all based on actual events), and as a buxom half-elf, I’m possessed of physical charms that tend to enrapture male members of an audience.

(And yes, even we non-lesser women enjoy a good double-entendre on occasion.)

Despite my prowess, however, it was unlikely that outside of the major cities, I’d be able to earn anything close to what we’d need to get Grimple’s enchantment lifted anytime soon. Wizards are damned expensive. And terrible dressers. Those pointy hats…

Grimple sighed.

“Believe me, this is just as hard on me as it is on you.” He shot me a look that communicated his feelings on that particular statement quite clearly, words or no words. “Fine. Perhaps slightly harder on you.” I shook my head. “But, I can’t think of a way to get the kind of ready money we need, unless…”

I trailed off and started to smile. Grimple looked nervous.

“I have ideas,” I proclaimed. “Mostly brilliant.” I paused. “Partly brilliant.”

Grimple raised an eyebrow.

“What if we didn’t need money? What if we got the magic in another way?” Grimple’s eyebrow remained raised. It was an impressive feet of muscle control. Then again, I’ve seen him lift a cow over his head with one hand, swing it around like bolas, and fling it at an ogre, so I guess this was only mildly impressive by comparison (relax, bleeding hearts—it was an undead cow…yes, they’re a thing).

“When we stopped in Alkara a few weeks back, do you remember the story I told that night?” Grimple shook his head. I sighed. That’s the problem with overexposure—even the most miraculous experience, such as hearing me sing, becomes mundane after seeing it too many times. “It was the one about the magical Wishing Well of Wilkington—the one that grants wishes in exchange for tossing in something of considerable personal importance. I talked to several adventurers before I wrote that, and I’m pretty sure the Well is legit. There’s only one potential drawback—from what I’ve heard, the wish has to be worded perfectly or else the consequences may be…unexpected.”

Grimple’s expression remained unchanged. “Okay, well, that’s one option. Second option: remember last year when we saved that town from the undead cows?” (See—I told you.) “Sure, they paid us a handsome reward, but the mayor was practically falling over himself to make it clear that he was permanently in our debt. Though he might have just been infatuated with me. That said, there are a couple of wizards in that town…he may have some pull with them. Maybe he can lean on them to do the job at a steep discount.”

Grimple shrugged.

“And, of course, we could always just try to kidnap a wizard and keep him tied up until he agrees to help. Though that’s probably the least brilliant of my suggestions.” I reined in my horse as we reached a fork in the road; Grimple followed suit. “Well…what do you think? Wishing Well of Wilkington, pay our old friend the Mayor of Bibbledon a visit, or find the nearest wizard and hog tie him for a few hours?”

(Friends—don’t leave our noble adventurers hanging! Weigh in with your opinion on which course of action they should choose in the comments section below by December 16, and tune in for the next installment of the story to follow sometime thereafter!)

Update: click here for part 2!

Oh, and the actual, full story is now available! See The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple.
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Published on December 07, 2015 10:00 Tags: cliffhanger, fantasy, free-story, serial

The Chronicle of Heloise and Grimple – A Serial Adventure (Part 4)

For those who dig fun, rollicking fantasy adventures, we hereby present Part 4 of The Chronicle of Heloise and Grimple (for more background on the series and to read Part 1: All’s Well That Begins Well, click here). Periodically throughout the series, you, Dear Readers, will be presented with decision points at the end of installments, and it is YOUR collective feedback that will help determine the path our heroes take. So pay attention and choose (un)wisely—the next such decision point will come at the end of Part 5!

Where There’s a Well, There’s a…Giant Dragon-Like Thing That Wants to Eat Us

“The Ballad of the Well of Wilkington”

Dramatis Personae

Heloise: a clever, beautiful, honey-voiced, silver-tongued bard of exceptional, perhaps unparalleled, skill

Grimple: a smarter-than-average hill giant (which isn’t saying much) with a penchant for getting enchantments cast on him that make him look like a gnome and for misleading, if not outright lying, to his clever, beautiful, honey-voiced, silver-tongued adventuring partner

Kevil: a not evil, possibly not incompetent wizard


“I neglected to mention this earlier, with all of the pinning me to the ground and talk about undead wizards, but you’re not actually saying my name right.”

“Huh?” Kevil’s words brought me out of my reverie. I shook my head and turned in my saddle to look at the wizard. “What are you talking about?

“It rhymes with ‘bevel,’ not ‘evil.’ I just figured that if you’re making up a song that’s at least partly about me, you could pronounce it right.”

I narrowed my eyes and looked suspiciously at our new companion, who I now suspected of reading my mind. “Who says I’m making up a song?”

“You keep muttering lines out loud, though you don’t seem to be getting much past ‘Dramatis Personae.’” Kevil gave me an annoyed look. “And I’m not incompetent. Just because I can’t undo an enchantment that only a handful of wizards could undo doesn’t make me incompetent. It makes me human.” He spurred his horse and rode ahead. He wasn’t a bad rider for someone who hadn’t spent much time on horseback.

I was glad to see the back of his spurs, as I’m certain my color had risen slightly. I had a bad habit of talking out loud when I was writing songs in my head, and I hated for anyone to hear unfinished work—especially when the work in progress was at its earliest stage, one where I was more focused on melody than words. And particularly when the story about which I was writing a song hadn’t actually happened yet.

To be fair to me, though, other than Kevil’s attempt to restore Grimple to normal—which had, for the most part, failed—I hadn’t seen him work any magic, so he truly might be incompetent, despite his own opinion on the subject. I did feel a little bad about mispronouncing his name, though, even if the way he pronounced it was stupid.

If you’ve got “evil” in your name, it should be pronounced evil.

We’d been on the road for three days, riding as hard as we could on mounts of middling quality (a result of both our lack of extensive funds and a paltry selection of palfreys in Bristow). It would be another two days of hard riding before we reached the Well, the latter part of which would be far from the well-kept (and well-patrolled) roads on which we’d been traveling. It had been a while since Grimple and I had been in a fight, and Kevil never had, so I was curious to see how we would handle skirmishes that might occur (which is a polite euphemism for “not really looking forward to it in the slightest, and, should an encounter occur, would very much prefer to be accosted by a handsome band of gentle centaur masseurs than poked and prodded by a band of marauding orcs” (or, more accurately, a “grope of orcs,” as a collection of orcs is properly called—allegedly, it derives from the orcish word for “group,” but I think we all know why it’s called a grope)). We were still on well-traveled roads frequented by merchant caravans, but I placed my hand on the hilt of my favorite dagger nonetheless, comforted by its stabby presence.

After another night of roadside camping (the surrounding area was safe, and it saved us from having to spend funds in taverns unlikely to be receptive to an offer of service from a traveling bard, no matter how talented and comely she may be), we rose and road hard toward our goal, knowing that the going would be much slower as we entered the forest in which we would find the Well.

Why, an astute reader might ask—and I’ve no doubt you are exactly that, given that you have such good taste in literature, as you are reading a tale penned by the preeminent storyteller in all of Balachor—would a Well be found in the middle of a forest, rather than in the midst of a town, where it would serve an actual, useful purpose? Excellent question, and the answer requires a brief digression of the type in which we bards specialize.

The Well of Wilkington started out as a normal well (uncapitalized), dug for the usual reasons—that is, to provide water to a thriving town—a thousand years ago. The well did its job, as wells do, and no one really thought much about it except when they were thirsty or needed to wash clothes or had some other water-related need that necessitated a trip to the old well. I say old because, by this point, some 800 years after it was first dug, it was pretty old. About 200 years ago, people stopped using the well regularly. Over time, a well might dry up, or a town might grow in a different direction and use a well less and less until it becomes abandoned or is filled in. Such was not the case with the Well of Wilkington, however. Rather, the well fell into disuse because it started causing weird things to happen.

It started innocently enough, or so the story goes. One of the townspeople was drawing water from the well when he happened to exclaim to a nearby friend, “I wish this bucket of water was ale.” Now, most anyone who’s not an idiot knows that using the phrase “I wish” is always a dangerous proposition, regardless of circumstance. Too much stray magic floating around waiting to be activated by those very words. Still, perhaps we can forgive this man for his momentary lapse of reason, particularly given his apparently extreme level of thirst.

Fortunately for him, his words not only didn’t bring him harm, they brought him beer. A big, sudsy, frothy-headed bucket of it. He didn’t notice at first, his mind elsewhere as he hauled the bucket up from the bottom of the well, but as soon as he pulled the bucket close, the white, foamy top caught his eye. He brought it close to his face, sniffed it, and shrugged. Looked like ale. Smelled like ale. Only one way to find out if it actually WAS ale…

He brought the bucket to his lips and sipped slowly; a second later, his eyes lit up as the ale, dark and hoppy, hit the back of his throat and filled him with warmth. Naturally, this development led to some rather excited reactions (the man’s friends, apparently, being as thirsty as he) and an assumption that the man himself had somehow developed magical powers. When subsequent attempts to turn other objects into beer failed, however, one of the slightly less inebriated, but considerably more hungry, onlookers thought to approach the well. He looked inside the deep well, dark at the bottom where the sun’s waning rays couldn’t reach and said, very understandably yet regrettably, “I wish you’d make me a fish sandwich.”

Needless to say, the man’s transformation into the object of his stomach’s desire startled his companions, who ran screaming away from the well (it’s unclear whether any of them considered eating the sandwich, perhaps fearing it might be considered cannibalism), and a legend was born.

Over the next several years, the legend spread, and visitors came from far and wide to test the well, now known as the Well of Wilkington (Wilkington being the name of the town in which the Well resided; let us award no points for creativity to the denizens of that now-defunct village for their naming of troublesome magical wells). Results, as you might imagine, were mixed—some people’s wishes were fulfilled beyond their wildest dreams, while others experienced mishaps ranging from minor inconvenience to death by raccoon consumption (as happened to the poor man who just wanted a fish sandwich). As the decades passed, fewer and fewer people came to try their luck at the Well, and the town of Wilkington began to shrink in fortune and popularity until, ultimately, it was abandoned by even its hardiest and most long-tenured families.

Now, it’s as much legend as anything, and only occasionally do those brave—or foolhardy—enough seek it out, especially given that the forest around it has grown dangerous.

And it was into that forest that Grimple, Kevil, and I now rode. Dapples of sunlight ricocheted through the thick forest canopy to create a patchwork of illuminated lattices amidst the darkened gloom of the primeval wood.

(Gods of Erithea…who says things like, “Dapples of sunlight ricocheted through the thick forest canopy to create a patchwork of illuminated lattices amidst the darkened gloom of the primeval wood?” Pretentious windbags, that’s who. Let me try that again.)

Only a little bit of sunlight could get through the trees, which made things pretty spooky.

(That’s better. Sometimes I get carried away, and then I realize that drunken morons have no idea what dapples are—and drunken morons are my core audience.)

The first half of the day was uneventful, and we came to a stop near a small stream. I was hesitant to let the horses drink from it, but Kevil led his straight to it. “It’s not the woods that are evil, Heloise,” he said, patting his horse’s neck. “It’s the evil monsters that live in them. So, unless they all conspire to take giant, evil poops at the source of this stream, this water should be safe to drink.”

“I’ve seen giant poops,” I said, looking toward Grimple, who, in his hill giant days, had had few reservations about going whenever he needed to go, regardless of where that might be and who might be around, “and I can tell you that I wouldn’t drink anything I found within a league of them.”

Kevil shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Grimple suddenly raised his hand and shushed us. He looked warily around, holding a finger to his lips.

I frowned. I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary, and, with my keen half-elven ears (the top half, I should note—pointy as could be), my hearing was much sharper than his. After looking around for a moment, Grimple reached into his pocket and put something on his face. “Where did you get spectacles?!” I hissed, “and why are you wearing them?”

Grimple shushed me again, a stern look on his stupid gnome face as he looked and listened. I was beginning to loathe that big little bastard.

That’s when I heard it—and saw it. A cloud of…of…bats! Hundreds—no, thousands—of bats! They were headed straight toward us, flying low, beneath the cover of the trees. They’d be on top of us in a matter of seconds.

Grimple brandished his club, waving it about with a ferocity that was normally very intimidating, but looked ridiculous coming from a gnome. Kevil threw himself on the ground and pulled a blanket over his head. I was glad to see he was displaying such bravery in the face of danger.

I ducked down, but wasn’t particularly concerned. I mean, they were bats. Unless they were stupid bats, they’d use their sonar, realize we were humans (or, in the case of Grimple, human-like), and fly around us. My primary goal was not getting bat poop in my hair because that stuff takes forever to get out.

No, I was much more concerned about what was driving the bats toward us.

The wave of bats swept over us and, as I’d expected, passed right by. Save for a little incidental contact with wing or leg, I remained unscathed (and, thankfully, unpooped upon—though Kevil’s blanket wasn’t so lucky). Grimple, acting as hill giants tend to act in these situations, swung his club mightily and took down at least a half dozen bats with each swing. Once the bats noted the movement, they gave him a wide berth. A moment later, they were gone.

“It’s okay, Kevil,” I said. “You can come out now, our not-evil, possibly incompetent, clearly cowardly wizard.”

Kevil threw the blanket back and stood up, looking much less terrified than I imagined he would. “I wasn’t afraid; I just didn’t want to get pooped on.”

Hmmm. Kevil, the not-evil, possibly incompetent, eminently sensible wizard. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but we keep peeling back new layers. “Smart man.” I made a mental note to keep a blanket handy on all future adventures that presented even the slightest chance of encountering bats (or, as happened one time, flying elephants…a suit of armor would have been better than a blanket in that instance, though).

I turned to Grimple. “Are you all right, Mighty Hunter? Any wounds sustained in the heroic slaying of tiny fruit bats?”

“I’ll have you know, dear Heloise, that it is entirely possible that any number of those bats could have been vampires in disguise.”

“And your hitting them with an ordinary club would have done what, exactly?”

Grimple pushed the spectacles, which had begun to slip, up his nose. “It would have, ah, forced them to reveal their true form. Eh what?”

“Thereby starting a fight with vampires who might otherwise have left us alone. Brilliant.”

“What do you think stirred up the bats?” asked Kevil, looking around.

“Whatever it is, I doubt it’s something we want to tangle with.” I stopped and listened for a moment, but couldn’t hear anything that might have prompted the bats’ flight. “Let’s keep moving so we can…Gods of Erithea! The horses!” In all of the confusion, we’d failed to notice that our (stupidly) untethered mounts had fled. Crap.

“Well, bollocks,” said Grimple, taking off his spectacles, huffing a breath on them, and polishing them with his shirt.

“STOP IT WITH THE ACCENT!”

“You know he can’t, right?” said Kevil. Rather irritatingly, I might add. “Like I said before, it’s a strange effect of the attempt to dispel the enchantment having to do with an obscure application of Madras’s Fourth Principle of—”

“STOP IT WITH THE EXPLANATIONS.” I shook my head. “I need a moment to think.”

With no mounts, we were at least a few hours’ hike from the Well, based on my limited understanding of the geography and a rough map I’d sketched with the help of someone who had (allegedly) once visited the Well. I didn’t mind that prospect, but we still didn’t know what had spooked the bats, and we needed to get back to civilization afterward. That was going to be a long walk—especially without the extra rations stored in the horses’ saddlebags.

I sighed and shouldered my pack. “Come on—if we walk fast, we can probably reach the Well by nightfall. Without knowing what sent the bats scurrying we—”

“Shhhh!” Kevil held up his hand. Now the HUMAN was shushing me. I need to get my hearing checked.

“Look,” said Kevil a moment later, entirely too calmly, when a purple-and-blue wyvern—that’s a miniature dragon (and when I say miniature, I mean only 20 feet long), people—flew up over the trees and, following the same path as the bats, made straight for us. Unlike the bats, however, wyverns like to snack on humans.

Even Gimple looked unsure what to do, raising his club but looking at me for direction. “RUN!” I shouted, veering away from the clearing and diving into the nearest thicket of bushes that might provide some cover. Wyverns, fortunately, don’t have breath weapons—that is, fire or acid—like dragons, so I figured the bushes might at least make it harder for it to eat me.

Gimple did likewise, but Kevil just stood in the clearing, staff at the ready, his other arm at his side. He looked completely at ease as he studied the creature, which was headed straight for him and closing fast. “Kevil—move!” I shouted (though without leaving the cover of my thicket).

Kevil looked over his shoulder toward me. “For the most part, they’ve done an excellent job.” He raised his staff as the wyvern descended. “The visual is perfect.” The beast shrieked, an ear-splitting noise that left me cringing. “The sound spot is spot-on, too.” The wyvern opened its maw, sharp teeth glinting in the fading sun, and prepared to make Kevil a not evil, possibly incompetent, clearly stupid, and decidedly headless wizard.

“What they forgot, though,” said Kevil as he touched the wyvern with his staff just before it engulfed him, “is the smell.”

The mini dragon disappeared instantly when Kevil’s staff touched it; one moment it was there, the next it was completely gone.

I blinked. “What the…?”

“Oh, good show!” shouted Grimple. “Dear Kevil has slain the nefarious dragon—”

“Wyvern,” corrected Kevil, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

“Right—wyvern,” said Grimple, nodding. “He has slain the nefarious dragon with his mighty staff!”

“Mighty staff my ass,” I may or may not have mumbled. More loudly, I said, “What in the Seven and a Half Hells just happened?”

“It was an illusion,” replied Kevil with a shrug. “A pretty good one, but, like I said, they forgot to include smell. Wyverns…well, they stink. They’re like the skunks of dragonkin. If you’re within a half mile of one, you know it. When we saw it but couldn’t smell it, I knew it was illusory.” He smiled. “Illusions are kind of my specialty.” He frowned. “Which should, I hope, tell you just how complicated the enchantment Grimple is under is, Heloise.”

Kevil, the not evil, apparently not incompetent, rather resourceful, but decidedly uppity wizard. Well, I’ve had worse traveling companions. “I’m sorry, Kevil—I haven’t given you a fair shake. I guess I’m just frustrated by this whole thing.” I motioned to Grimple. “And by that miniature asshole.”

“By Jove! Heloise, dear, I’ve half a mind to—”

“Hush, Grimple.”

“Righty-o.”

“So, flock of bats, scary wyvern illusion…what’s next?”

Kevil shrugged again. “This is really more your line of work than mine.”

“Well, you’re proving yourself adept.” I looked at the rapidly fading daylight. “I think we’re going to need to find a place to camp. My guess is that we’re still at least a few hours from the Well, and that’s if we’re able to find it without any trouble. Let’s set a watch and get some rest. I’ll see what I can scrounge up for dinner and…what? What’s that look for?”

Kevil looked all around, spinning a complete circle. “Where’s Grimple?”

“Gods!” I pulled my knife from my belt. “Grimple!” I looked at Kevil. “If whatever sent the wyvern hasn’t killed him, I’ll take care of the problem for them.”

“Heloise!” came an annoyingly accented yell.

“Come on!” I shouted to Kevil, racing into the thicker part of the forest, Kevil hard on my heels (or, at least, as hard on my heels as an extremely pasty, pretty out-of-shape wizard could be when chasing after a lithe and winsome gazelle like myself).

We sprinted through the underbrush, thorns snagging our clothing and dead leaves and branches causing us both to stumble. A moment later, as the last of the sun’s rays filtered over the horizon, we entered another clearing, where Grimple stood waiting for us, pushing his spectacles back up his nose. “Grimple! Are you all right?”

“Smashing, dear Heloise, simply smashing.”

“Where did you go?”

“Well, if you really must know, I had to make my toilet, and I figured it would be rather more discreet if I were to distance myself from—”

My eyes went wide. “This enchantment really HAS changed you—normally, I have to bribe you to go poop somewhere else.”

“Yes, well…tally-ho. At any rate, I found this lovely clearing, and, lo and behold.” He waved his hand with a flourish at a stone structure behind him, one I’d failed to notice when we entered the clearing, but one I stared at now.

It was a well.

“Welcome!” came a deep voice from within the well, echoing off the stones. “Care to make a wish? Deposit one gold coin, please!”

Not just A well, apparently—THE Well.

We’d found the Well of Wilkington.

Can the Well restore Grimple to normal? Will Heloise murder him before we have a chance to find out? Does Kevil have any spells to get bat poop out of his blanket? Answers to those questions and more to come in Part 5…coming soon!

Update: continue on to part 5!
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Published on January 20, 2016 12:41 Tags: adventure, fantasy, serial

On Dragons: A Primer for Humans

I penned this a few years back as a writing exercise and never did anything with it; it recently occurred to me that those of you who enjoyed The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple might enjoy this as well, so I thought I’d post it here. Happy reading, and please use this information to be less ignorant the next time you discuss dragons.

On Dragons: A Primer for Humans

By Acidius Darkolius Eathumanus

It’s difficult to lay too much blame on you for your ignorance.

After all, how many humans can honestly claim to have encountered a dragon and lived to tell the tale? I fear your own deliciousness works against you; even if we didn’t find you vastly inferior, and even if you had some modicum of value to offer in conversation, I suspect that your tiny but succulent bodies would prove too hard to resist. Not as gratifying as grazing on cattle, perhaps, or even a nice dolphin, but there’s something very appealing about a bite-sized snack. But, I’m getting ahead of myself, as I intend to cover draconian dietary habits below.

Perhaps I give your feeble brains too much credit, but you might wonder why a dragon, particularly one as renowned as I, would stoop to offering a primer on my kind to a species we are far more likely to consume than converse with. Perhaps I grow soft as I approach middle age (that’s around 500 human years) and wish to benevolently educate subcreatures, but my primary motivation is more selfish: I am tired of rumors, half-truths, and outright fabrications sullying the good name of the world’s most perfect beings.

The bards would have you believe that being a dragon entails an orgy of gluttony, sloth, and wanton destruction, but show me a minstrel who has actually come face to face with one of my kind and I will show you a stringy-haired shish kebob with poorly grown facial hair. It should go without saying that living life as a dragon is hardly as easy as humans might think, and if you just so happen to be a gay dragon (as some of the greatest dragons are)…well, that’s an entirely different ball of flame, so to speak.

Be thankful for the knowledge I am about to impart, and use it wisely, for I would hate to spend valuable time I could be using to eat you re-educating you.

Species

There are dozens of different types of dragons, with brilliant hues spanning the rainbow from red to violet, and those of like color usually share certain general characteristics. Blue dragons, for example, tend to be somewhat docile (relatively speaking), favor cooler climates, and frequently band together in loose communities. Red dragons, conversely, are fiercely independent, selfish creatures of malevolent intent, bent on burning to ash anyone or anything they encounter; they’re also likely to lose to a steaming pile of their own feces in a battle of wits.

As you might imagine, these common subspecies characteristics regularly lead to internecine strife between different-colored dragons; try to conceive, then, how difficult it is for a dragon who, in addition to being a male dragon who prefers the company of other male dragons, is black as well. Yes, painful though it may be to admit, dragons do share some of humans’ more reprehensible characteristics, including shunning those of certain colors. In the dragon world, it is the glitzy gold dragons that lord above all.
Where to begin with gold dragons? Majestic creatures, certainly. Large, powerful (both physically and magically), and hyper-intelligent—characteristics beyond dispute. Humans tend to attribute other qualities of more dubious veracity to the golds—nobility, righteousness, and heroicness among them. Even the gold dragons refer to themselves as the “good dragons,” but in truth, they’re little more than self-righteous bullies intent on perpetuating a draconian—pun fully intended—caste system that belittles smaller and less powerful (not to mention blacker) dragons, whom they view as nearly as inferior as humans.

As an alternative to characterizing golds as heroic and noble lords of the sky, I submit to you a more accurate representation: boorish and pompous dickheads.

As for black dragons, we couldn’t get positive press if we shat gold into the coffers of every human king in the world. Even the greens, who smell like dead swamp rats and have a tendency toward uncontrolled public masturbation, are more revered than we are. I understand why humans regard us with such disdain—they can’t help being the prejudiced, feeble-minded pricks that they are. Other dragons, however, have no such excuse, and while I could postulate several brilliant social theories that are likely to be far too complex for my intended audience to comprehend, I suspect that the real reason for the vitriol we encounter on a daily basis can be explained by the simple fact that we can accessorize with pretty much anything.

Anatomy and Mating Habits

Here’s a little-known but interesting anatomical fact about dragons: unlike humans, whose facial features, voices, hair, and body shape all suggest a particular identity (recognizing, of course, that gender is fluid), you can’t tell if a dragon is male or female without seeing its underside.
Let us suppose that I were to meet some other dragon out in the field as it grazes on unsuspecting sheep and we get to talking, and we think we might be into each other. Sure, this dragon might have some great T&S (that’s “tail and scales”), but unless he/she decides to hop up for a quick flight around the meadow, I’ll be left wondering whether it has a nice set of plump dragonberries or a ghastly crevasse I wouldn’t touch with even a gold dragon’s tiny sword. It’s quite awkward, and, for reasons I, despite my vast intelligence, have never quite been able to comprehend, it’s considered gauche to simply ask whether a dragon is male or female.
As you might imagine, the situation is doubly complicated for one of my preferences, as I not only have to try to determine whether my potential conquest is equipped with a staff (and, let’s face it, how mighty that staff is), but then somehow ascertain whether he shares my proclivities. And, it’s not as though we have a secret handshake or anything to figure that sort of thing out discreetly; our forearms are somewhat short, making them ill suited to handshakes, as our snouts—which feature powerful jaws filled with rows of dagger-like teeth and which are ready to burst forth with a deadly breath weapon at the slightest provocation—tend to bump up against each other when we try to clasp hands, making an already-awkward embrace potentially disfiguring. Frankly, I don’t see why we can’t just wear scarves or ribbons around our horns or something, but none of the other dragons I’ve suggested the notion to have warmed to this idea.

Based on my observations—and I have reason to pay very close attention—no subspecies of dragon evinces any higher a population of gay dragons than any other; in fact, I have yet to meet a gay pink dragon, with most of them having been so overwhelmingly heterosexual that it makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little (a “hot snack,” as I believe you vulgar humans call it), which is particularly painful when one can spew bone-melting acid. I wonder, though, if many of them are doing what humans call “covering,” a taxing emotional and psychological undertaking, and one that isn’t mentally healthy for humans or dragons.

For some inexplicable reason, straight dragons tend to regard the sex act as necessary rather than pleasurable, something that functions as a means to an end—namely, the creation of immense eggs that, after a month or so of sitting on, hatch into bothersome little dragons who can’t do anything but burp fire and beg for cows they can’t kill themselves. Dragons don’t breastfeed (for what I hope by now are obvious reasons), so they have to catch and kill food for their brood from day one (and those little parasites eat a lot). Dragons, like humans, occasionally mate for life, but, also like humans, that’s usually only the case for the ugly ones.

The actual act of intercourse is, as you might imagine, no easy feat for large reptilian bodies that can weigh up to 12 tons and stretch 75 feet (or more) from snout to tail. Our tails, which are less functional than we’d like them to be, tend to get in the way, making it difficult to get all the right parts in all the right places. The fact that most of us live in caverns barely large enough to contain our precious hoards of treasure (more about that later) further complicates matters, as it’s almost impossible to mount (or be mounted by) another dragon without ending up with a jeweled chalice, mystical sword, or some other such pointy item getting stuck in an uncomfortable place.

Due to the particular construction and location of our genitalia, it can be difficult to tell the difference between rudimentary and functional straight dragon sex and exquisitely pleasurable gay dragon sex. I would recommend not venturing close enough to observe any of the subtle indicators—the look of pleasure instead of boredom on the bottom partner’s face, for example—lest you find yourself inadvertently crushed or charred to a blackened crisp by an orgasmic spout of flames.

While I generally consider myself an optimist, I cannot deny that it is difficult being a male-loving male dragon in a reptilian world where procreation is the order of the day and sex for fun is considered as abnormal as it is logistically difficult, a dully dark-skinned behemoth in a world of dazzling colors. Sometimes life, just like a silver dragon, can be a real bitch.

Social Life

As noted above, dragons’ social habits tend to derive from their skin color, though there are exceptions to this general rule. While it is true that red dragons generally eschew company, I have known one or two to be quite companionable, and I even once met one who hosted weekly dinner parties for a coterie of different-colored dragons. Now, it turned out that the dinner parties were preceded by a barbaric round of melees whose unfortunate losers had the dubious honor of being roasted and served as the main course, but, still, this is notable behavior for a species that often goes to great lengths to avoid interacting with others of its kind.

Unlike humans, dragons do not consider familial bonds a sufficient reason to spend time with dragons we don’t like; the fact that a cranky dragon once pushed out an egg that happened to contain me does not seem like a logical basis for an obligatory visit during some ridiculous holiday. Frankly, we find your blood loyalty rather stupid, as it tends to make you unprepared for dragon strikes during such holidays, when the warm embrace of kith and kin becomes superheated by the liquid fire we use to turn your happy smiles into death masks. Religious holidays are one of our favorite times to strike—in fact, it’s become something of an ironic ritual that we ourselves gather to give thanks during certain human holidays, just before we sally forth to take advantage of all those unsuspecting warm snacks massed in one place.

Having no need to huddle together in one place to build protective shelters and grow weak and reliant on others for everything from basic foodstuffs to the uncomfortable homespun garments humans use to cover their hideously misshapen bodies, dragons do not create the same sorts of social or governmental institutions humans do. That is not to say, however, that we completely lack a pecking order, or that we never congregate in one place to debate larger issues.

Once every decade (as humans reckon time), a dragonmoot is convened in a location completely inaccessible to other creatures. The purpose of this meeting is to exchange news and information about potential threats (few and far between though they may be), settle territorial disputes (occasionally through diplomacy, though more frequently through the rending of flesh, which always seemed to me a much more definitive way to resolve differences), and, for those dragons so inclined, find mates. Not every dragon attends the dragonmoot, and any agreement negotiated at a dragonmoot can easily be overruled if a larger and more powerful dragon decides he or she does not like the current arrangement.

Frankly, I find dragonmoots about as entertaining and useful as a severed limb. In some respects, I suppose I have always been what humans might call a “black sheep,” though I frankly do not understand the negative connotation of this metaphor, as I find black sheep delicious.

Diet

Dragons are carnivores—plain and simple. I can think of no type of meat we would outright refuse, though it goes without saying that coastal-dwelling dragons tend to favor seafood more than their landlocked counterparts. Preference on consuming raw meat or cooked meat—courtesy of an exhalation of flame, naturally—depends on whether or not a dragon has a breath weapon, a characteristic enjoyed by greens, reds, golds, blues, and a few other less common varieties (black dragons have the ability to spew acid, which is extremely handy when it comes to separating eviscerated humans from their cumbersome armor—which tastes like the end of a pitchfork—but slightly more problematic when one drools in one’s sleep…not that one has ever done that).

We prefer to kill our food ourselves—no self-respecting dragon would eat carrion (though, naturally, reds love nothing more than to tear into a maggot-infested carcass; disgusting freaks).

The frequency with which dragons must seek sustenance depends on age, climate, race, and other variable characteristics. That said, we differ from humans in one major way: we eat only when we’re hungry. Forget every story you’ve heard of draconian gluttony—they are the embellishments of halfwit poets who can’t conceive of a creature who doesn’t succumb to the same base urges that make the poets themselves constantly seek a new pot in which to dip their pen.

Though, to be fair, we really like killing things for no particular reason.

Migratory Patterns

Dragons face something of a conundrum: we cannot remain too close to our mothers for fear they will eat us before we are large enough to defend ourselves, but we are also not sufficiently strong fliers in terms of endurance to travel vast distances to seek out our own territory. Fortunately, mature female dragons are incredibly lazy, and never more so than when they are rearing their young. Consequently, assuming young dragons are sufficiently enterprising, they generally have few problems seeking out and killing enough food for both themselves and the wretched creatures who, by virtue of pushing an oblong shell out of an uncomfortable place, feel they are owed a lifetime of deferential behavior and tributes.

As young dragons grow larger and their mothers more wary of attacking them for fear of being wounded (or killed) in the fracas, they are faced with a conundrum: where do they carve out their own territory? Do they remain close to the hunting grounds they have grown to know, knowing that if they do, they risk regular encounters with their mothers (run-ins far more likely to result in torrents of self-esteem-defeating strings of invectives being unleashed than the trite and pedantic mewling human mothers spout to their offspring, no matter how useless and lazy they may be)? Or, do they strike out for new territory, not knowing whether there will be sufficient food or if there are more powerful rival dragons who have already staked a claim to the territory?

It probably goes without saying that most young dragons choose the latter course of action.

Treasure

Perhaps one of the few correct conceptions about dragons that humans have is the fact that we love treasure. We will stop at nothing to add to our hordes, which is, I admit, something of an irrational compulsion, given that it’s not as though we have any need to use such treasure for its intended purpose. For us, it’s, well, frankly, a size issue. The bigger the treasure horde, the more respect a dragon is accorded by his or her peers—we are, in that respect, not dissimilar from humans. That said, while all those piles of gold coins, diamonds, and gem-encrusted goblets may look fabulous, they have a tendency to get stuck in crevices you didn’t even know you had every time you roll over in your sleep.

One way in which humans are grossly misinformed vis-à-vis draconian treasure, however, is the myth that if a human can answer a dragon’s riddle, the dragon will part with whatever piece of its horde the human most desires. I suppose that all legends have a grain of truth in them somewhere, and it’s not completely impossible that, at some point in time, some mentally deficient (and likely quite bored) dragon engaged in such tomfoolery. Is it, however, a practice in which dragons habitually engage? Absolutely and unequivocally not. The very idea is anathema to dragons for two reasons: 1) we greatly covet treasure and utterly loathe parting with it unless physically forced to; and 2) as a general rule, we’d much rather eat humans than converse with them, and we’d certainly rather eat them than give them something for being clever.

But, far be it for me to discourage an easy meal from walking into my lair under the misguided notion that I would be willing to trade the answer to a riddle for treasure, so I would request that you continue to perpetuate this particular misnomer.

In Conclusion

In closing, dragons are amazing, powerful, fantastical creatures, unquestionably the world’s most fascinating and worthy beings. They are, however, extraordinarily dangerous and, lamentably, share some of humanity’s less admirable characteristics. Still, I would never trade the glory of being a dragon—even an occasionally unfairly scorned one—for anything, and if I can only eat as many humans in the second half of my life as I have in the first, I will consider it a life well lived.

Please don’t hesitate to call on me for further information. I’ll be in my lair, eagerly awaiting your arrival.
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Published on December 01, 2017 09:26 Tags: dragons, fantasy, heloise-grimple