A Cellar Fairy Tale
 

Once upon a time, in a Kingdom long ago, far away but not all that different from our own, the people lived under a terrible tyranny. Oh, not the taxes, or the tooth decay, or even the watered down beer. No, in this particular time and this particular Kingdom there were terrible daemons.

The people believed that what the daemons required was young, female, virgin flesh to devour at every quarter year. And accordingly they sacrificed the best, the most beautiful and the slowest runners out of the entire Kingdom. Their land was known far and wide as the Country With No Brides, due to the supposed shortage of naïve and compliant young women.

One day, a Knight came riding into the Kingdom. It might be supposed that he was on some sort of heroic quest, that he had heard of the Kingdom, the waste of the delicate flower of womanhood, that he had come to slay the daemons and claim the hand of the fairest maiden left. This was not quite the case. Although the Knight was bold and brave, he had been round the jousting field a fair few times. He was a little tired of squeaky voiced buxom lasses wittering in his ear about their own beauty and tired of lacing up magical stays and polishing magic mirrors. He was coming to the Kingdom because he had heard it was full of lithe, athletic, sensible matrons, who could hold an intelligent conversation, brew their own beer, read aloud in failing candlelight and run for the hills in times of trouble.

But no sooner was the smell of his iron scented on the breeze, than did the King send an escort to apprehend the Knight and beg his assistance.

“Sir Knight,” said he, “Please help us! For it is our own comely daughter who has been caught by the townspeople and is tied up in the daemon’s lair! Well, she isn’t technically a Princess, being the illegitimate get of a King and a barmaid… But she is royal nonetheless!”

“How very careless of you, your Majesty,” replied the Knight. “I will go and have a butchers, but I can’t promise anything.”

So off set the Knight, into the gloaming. And lo! There, around the corner of a rather attractive rock feature, was a young wench, blonde of hair, blue of eye and certainly pneumatic.

“Hello you,” she giggled. “Has am come to sort me out then, eh?”

“Look,” said the Knight, “You don’t need to be here. You don’t need to stay chained to your own rock, living with your own daemons and ruining your own life. Stop with the self-destructive behaviour and be yourself. You can be accepted and appreciated without making yourself a victim – there are enough women in the Kingdom to provide an example….”

And at that, the chains fell from the young girl’s body, and she was free.

“Oooooh!” she cried, “My saviour!”
At this, the chains gave a twitch and the gibbering of daemons was heard from the dark chasm.

“NO!” said the knight. “No more saviours, no more excuses, no more empty-headedness. Mmm-kay?”

The young lady looked at him sadly, reholstered her upholstery and took his arm as they started to walk back to the castle.

“How did you know the daemons were summoned by me?” she asked plaintively.

“Bin there, sin that, bought the breastplate,” replied sir Knight. “The rescued maidens from this place end up all over the realm, and I’ve seen enough sad confusion to last me a lifetime. It used to work because the meatheads who went rescuing only wanted tits and teeth, but these days decent knights are being sucked in, and ladies who have more to offer are being taught too young that this is the only way.”

“Here we are now at your mother’s inn. I suggest you learn yourself a trade and look out for a man who makes you laugh. Goodbye.”

“No kiss?” asked the fair maiden, wet thighs and sticky codpieces on her mind.

“Sorry,” said the Knight. “Miles to go before I sleep and all that.”

“At least tell me your name! You who have obviously woken countless women to themselves!”

"Bruce," he said. "Forget the hugs and kisses, you can call me Bruce."

In the next installment, can Elspode be his humble squire?

That was quite fine talespinning, SG. Brava!

yaeh, und vunerbar spellink!

god, she's good. write more, Cherry, write more!

I would like to have some of the Mead of Poetry that you've been bolting down, if there's any left in the cauldron ... wonderful tale spinning, Sundae!

Bravo Bravo!

You're a wonderful writer S.G. !! :)

I'd like to heap more praise as well.
Excellent work. When's chapter two out?

SG that was top!

:eek: :redface:
On so many levels!!

Sir Bruce, the Troll and the Three Goats Gryph
 

One day, a brave and bearded Knight was sitting in his kitchen, whittling, whistling and generally wishing he were working. Suddenly – as they do – a pigeon dropped by with a head full of strange ideas and a scroll full of message for the Knight.

Unrolled, the scroll read:

I have much need of a vigorous knight
Before your cock is next aroused
I will meet you at the sign of the rodent moon

This was sadly not a love letter. It was a contract – someone in the local area wanted to meet and discuss the details at the local inn.

So off set Bruce – for it was he - large as life and twice as fatal. He was looking forward to getting to The Rodent Moon, a place well known to him, for they kept a great cellar.

Once he had arrived and stabled his powerful charger, he went directly to the owner.
“Hello Tone – anyone looking for me? Cryptic sort probably.”

“Twas I,” quoth a hooded stranger in the corner, sunk in shadows and wreathed in smoke. “Tis a most noisome problem I have that requires your assistance.”
“Right,” said Bruce. “First things first. What’s your name and where do you come from?”
“Mr Gryphon,” said the man, pulling down his hood, pulling forward his chair and moving away from the smoky fire. “I’m from Tophia Farm, and I could really do with your help.”
Bruce always found that mysterious strangers became much less so once they’d introduced themselves.

“Well met sir, what seems to be the problem?”
“I’m having some trouble with trolls.”
“Trolls is it?” asked Bruce, surprised. “What makes you think I can help you with that?”
“According to local legend, you cleared this place of trolls a few years back,” said the farmer, knocking his muddy bootheels on the floor.
“I had help,” said the Knight, glancing towards the bar. “I had backup. And the small matter of an ogre.”
“An ogre? You deal with ogres, mister? Incredible!”
“True I assure you. But on with your problem – why is a troll lurking about your farm? They usually prefer the dark.”
“I keep goats,” he replied simply. “There’s nothing a troll likes better than a bit of goat, see? Except perhaps a bridge. And I have that too - in the middle of my land. My goats are on one side, I’m on the other and the damned troll is hiding underneath the bridge ready to gobble them up.”
“No clever little billy goat that might trick the troll?”
“No, three little nanny goats and nary a brain between them.”

At this, Bruce appeared to reach a decision.
“Don’t be disheartened my good man. I’ll ride to your farm first thing tomorrow. I have a cunning plan that has worked before.”

And so, early next morning, Bruce left the inn at the crack of dawn while everyone was sleeping except the owner, who was lazily catching flies.

***

Mr Gryphon slept late in the slothful manner of any man taking a break from family and farm, and woke to hear the clatter of hooves as Bruce returned, whistling merrily.

As soon as he could struggle into his clothes, he stumbled downstairs into the bar and greeted the Knight with astonished delight.

“You are back sir? Is it done?”
“Indeed I am, and indeed it is. You will be troubled no longer.”
“How did you fare sir?”
“Oh as expected. I simply sat close to the bridge and gently asked if there was anything in the area that wanted to talk. Trolls are mostly misunderstood creatures that act disruptively because they crave attention. The troll shouted abuse at me of course, but after an hour it became calm, and started to tell me the story of its life. Very hard lives some of these trolls have, living on tinned Spam and half-baked ideas. Eventually it came out quite peaceably and sat beside me with its head in my lap.”

“So it won’t bother me again?” asked Mr Gryphon warily.

“Certainly not!” replied the Knight. “As soon as I had its trust I whipped out my sword and knocked its block off.”

Mr Gryphon sprayed a mouthful of beer over the table.
“But surely sir, you had gained its trust? What more harm would it do?”

“You can’t tame a troll,” he replied. “They’re good for one thing and one thing only…” He looked meaningfully at the floor.
“Compost?” asked the farmer, with the air of a man who knows his shit.

There was a roar that shook the foundations of the inn.
Bruce smiled.
“Feeding ogres.”
“But.. What.. Why did you need an ogre last time?” puzzled Gryphon.
“Oh I didn’t need the ogre last time,” said Bruce, “Or at least only for disposing of the body. I had the help of someone Great and Powerful. Someone who prefers to stay behind the curtain shall we say.”

And to Mr Gryphon’s surprise, he winked at the innkeeper.

I LOVE IT!!!!!

honestly worthy of publishing! I fear you could give Terry Prachet and the likes a run for their money :) go you!

OMG Sundae I just noticed this line: You are so freaking clever!

Bravo! Very nice, Sundae