That's the spirit!


Emissaries arrive at the capital from the neighboring kingdom of Irelandshire pleading for assistance with a dragon problem. It seems the fiend has been soaring around the country, torching towns, devouring livestock, looting treasuries and snatching young ladies from their bedchambers. Naturally, you don your shining armor and volunteer to help rid them of the menace once and for all. Princess Anne kisses you goodbye as you ride off to hunt down the winged beast.


Finding the dragon's lair – a cave high up a tall mountain with half the forest burnt to ashes – proves easier than you anticipated. No one ever said dragons were discreet. The march up the mountain presents more of a challenge. Far too steep for your steed, you hike up on foot. You soon learn hiking in full plate armor is not easy. Every step requires sheer willpower and brute strength. Sweat pores off you so fast you fear you are going to rust, so you strip down to your leathers and continue to the top light as feather, just like the old days when you first practiced with Jon in the yard. 


"Well at least you aren't a knight in shining armor," says the dragon as you enter his cave. The behemoth is resting on a hoard of gold, jewels, swords, cups, and other valuable crap because of course he is.


"Pardon me?"


"Do you have any idea how annoying it is fighting knights in shining armor? I just fry them with a nice blast of fire. They're too heavy and clunky to dodge. No challenge at all. You should see the nice collection of armor I have though. I could outfit an entire empire."


"Actually, I stripped my armor coming up. I got sweaty."


The dragon sighs. "Well you're smarter than most at least."


"Your days are done dragon!" You prepare to make a heroic speech, but cut it off. "Wait, where are the noble ladies?"


"Didn't you see all the dung piles on the mountainside?"


"You ate them!?"


"What did you think I do with them? Keep them as company?"


"You bastard!"


You draw your sword. Fate has finally arrived. Are you up to the task?

You neither.

Attacking him head on would be suicide. Sure, it would be nice to blind him or cut into his underbelly, but he would just fry you with a blast of fire before you even got close. There is only one course of action to take in times like this: dodge.


Like a timid bear you perform a false charge, pulling up at the last second as a blast of fire scorches the ground in front of you. Without your bulky armor you are able to twist and twirl, spin and swirl, dip and dive, jump and jive and pirouette away from the dragon fire while inching ever closer to the monster. Since when did you get moves like Jagger?


"Die mortal," the dragon shouts, releasing another blast of fire.


You duck behind a conveniently placed boulder just in time to escape. The dragon stalks closer. His massive limbs quake the ground with every step: his tail smashing the wall without purpose. Another blast of fire. The heat coming off the rock is like lava. You fear it is about to melt.


Is this it? Is this the end?


"Foolish mortal. The only way to kill a dragon is with a disorganized band of heroes and a bard, or with a magic sword. And you don't have either. Mwhahaha."


Shit. I'm totally fucked. Why didn't I read that book on dragon clichés Jon bought me last Christmas? Think fast, think fast, think fast. Brain blast! Music! Music soothes the savage beast. Shit, I forgot my fiddle.


The dragon rumbles closer, taking his sweet time. Any more bright ideas, Mr. Hero?

You cry and Beg for Mercy

"Please, Mr. Dragon spare me!" Tears pour down your cheeks, and you drop to your knees. "I'll do whatever you want. I can be a good servant, or a steward. Everyone can use a good steward."


The dragon laughs so hard the entire mountain shakes. The roof of the cave above his head collapses, crushing his head. Ever the opportunist, you leap to your feet and plunge your sword down his gullet. The dragon's jaws snap shut before you can remove your arm. Steam spouts from his nostrils, burning your face. You see the dragon's body burst into flames as you blackout from the pain.


You awake sometime later in unfamiliar surroundings. A nice plush pillow is beneath your head, and half your head is wrapped in bandages. Your balls itch, but when you go to scratch them you realize your arm is gone.


"Where the fuck am I?"


A comely wench caresses your hand. "My good knight, you killed the dragon! We heard the battle from down in the valley, and some of the braver folk went to investigate. They found you gravely wounded, so they brought you to me and I nursed you back to health."


"Are you a herb woman?"


"No."


"What are you?"


"A milkmaid."


"Why did they bring me to you?"


"Milk gives you strong bones?" She shrugs. "But don't worry, I did a good job taking care of you. I watched over you day and night, and I only touched your private bits a few times."      


"Well that's nice of you, but… WHAT?"


"To clean them, Sir."


"Oh, I'm sorry. I just thought… never-mind. Thank you."


The milkmaid wench smirks coyly. "With my tongue."


Goddamn it.


Well, there you go, Mr. Hero. You killed the dragon. Not exactly the most heroic showing, but it got the job done. I imagine you expect to go back to your princess bride now, am I right? Princess Anne must be dying to see you. Boy, do I have bad news for you.


Princesses' do not marry hideously scarred men, and your face, well go look in a mirror. You look like someone slammed your head into a flaming brazier. Hey, don't get too upset. You are still a knight, and you have the eternal gratitude of the kingdom of Irelandshire. Plus, you got a ton of booty from that dragon's lair.


Time passes and you heal, more or less. You have the pick of any non-princess in two kingdoms, but you decide to settle down with the milkmaid wench, whose name turns out to be Marie. The two of you have several healthy children together with heroic aspirations of their own. You still keep in touch with your old pals Jon, Samwellington, and The Rabid Fox. You have a few castles built in both kingdoms and become a legendary hero. Of course, when you tell the story, you leave out the crying and begging for mercy part.


Your life with Marie is hot and steamy. You are not sure if you will ever get used to all of her kinks – you find yourself in some interesting scenarios when you wake up from time to time – but at the same time they kind of turn you on.

You once upon a time...

The wintry winds howl a horrible wail, whipping white watery snow against the weathered watchtower's westernmost wall. Yes, it is indeed a dark and stormy night, but darker and stormier and maybe just a tad more purple than your run-of-the-mill dark and stormy night.


Somewhere deep in the forest a unicorn frolics in a magical glade, as elves watch and scamper amongst the trees, polishing their bows with the blood of dwarves.


"Killed a big fat one today, Elfrond," says Elfmoor. "Bastard was trying to chop down a cherry tree. Can you believe it, a fucking cherry tree? Sacrilege."


"Have you ever wondered why we hate the dwarves so much?" asks Elfrond.


"What do you mean? They're fucking dwarves! And this one chopped down a tree. A cherry tree. Only thing that rivals my love of trees are cherries. And music. And song. And like five other things."


"Yeah, I've just been thinking lately. How did we get these sweet bows, if we didn't chop down a tree to shape them. And how do we burn fires without firewood? And why exactly do we hate the dwarves?"


"It's canon. Don't ask questions."


"What's a cannon?"


Suddenly, the elves quit bickering. Something that only happens once in a thousand years occurs. The glade explodes with magical aura as the unicorn releases its legendary rainbow fart. Magical anomalies, such as this, signal only one thing: the birth of a hero.


Elfmoor takes a big whiff of the magical aroma. "B. E. A. Utiful. Times like this make life worth living."


Elfrond shakes his head. "Elfmoor, we're immortal. I've seen this like ten times already. And every time this happens, it means something evil is about to come afoot."


"But the hero always wins."


"Have you ever heard the term collateral damage?"


"Is that a sword?"


And there you have it. The magical unicorn fart that marks your birth. How exciting! I wonder what type of hero you will grow up to be.

You want to be a wizard! Step aside, Potter!

A fine choice my friend. What is fantasy without wizards and magic?


You are born to parents of mysterious lineage. You cannot recall their faces or remember much of anything about them. When you are three years old, an old grey-bearded man in a tall pointy hat whisks you away to his society of magical folk and teaches you all he knows of the arcane. Naturally, the society is on a magical island whose shores are shrouded in fog, located some indeterminate number of leagues off the coast of the mainland. Growing up is fun, but tedious. Spells and incantations do not learn themselves.


Everything is peaches and plum pudding until one day you receive a summons – via giant flying eagle – from your old master. You are high up on the mountain, collecting snow samples for an alchemical experiment. It would take several days to hike all the way back to Manawell.


"Mr. Eagle?" you ask. Your voice is hedging, what you are about to ask is groundbreaking.


"What is it friend?"


"Could you give me a lift back down the mountain? This sounds important."


The eagle cocks his head. You are not sure if an eagle can look bemused, but if it could, you imagine this is what it would look like. "You know, no one has ever asked me that before. I always wondered why."


"Wizards are notorious for staying in shape," you say. "How else could white-beards run around with swords and keep pace with adventuring young heroes?"


"Ah, I see. You learn something new every day. Well, very well. Hop on my back, but try not to pull out any feathers."


The eagle flies you down to Manawell in no time at all. There may even be time to run a nice 10k this evening to make up for your lost exercise. You rush through the magical community to your master's tower, stopping only a brief moment to window shop at Merlim's Beard Trimming Emporium. Don't worry, I understand. Proper beard care is essential. No one wants to be the ruddy wizard with a bird's nest in his beard. That guy sucks. You finish your browsing and proceed to your master's tower without further incident.


"Master Dumbledalf," you shout as you reach the top room of the tower. "I received your summons. Is everything alright?"


Dumbledalf sets down his alchemical decanter and stares at you, his face expressionless. "Why are you here?"


"I told you. I received your summons."


"Yes, but you aren't supposed to be here for five more days."


"I hitched a ride with the eagle."


"You what!? Oh you ruined everything."


"Excuse me?"


"I'm not supposed to die for five more days. You sapped all the drama from my character. Oh well, just sit tight one second."


Dumbledalf crushes a few rattails and snake fangs with his mortar and pestle, boils some rum and troll's blood, sprinkles some belladonna power, and mixes all the goop together. He downs the concoction in one gulp and collapses to the floor.


"There, that's better," he says, coughing blood. "You have finally completed your apprenticeship under me. My time has come and gone, but yours is just beginning. As a true wizard, you must now undertake a heroic adventure. Let me see here." Dumbledalf pulls a scrap of parchment from within his robes. "Ah, here we go. There are two available that fit your qualifications."


Dumbledalf dies in your arms. You scream and curse the gods for taking the life of such a fine man. He was only 1984. He should have had at least another century in him. You finish your mandatory blubbering and look at the paper.

You travel to Westengland and Kill some Evil Wizard

Why bother tutoring the next great hero when you can be the next great hero? Killing an evil wizard is certain to garner the fame and acclaim necessary to ascend to the ever sought after hero status. You grab an assortment of essential wizarding supplies from Dumbledalf's stores, cast a burying spell on his body, and head to the port to set sail for Westengland.


The captain of the Briar Rose is thrilled to have a wizard onboard. Wizards prove quite invaluable at sea, what with all the pirates, storms, and sea monsters lurking beneath the depths.


"A wizard at sea is worth his weight in silver," says Captain Horatio.


"I thought the saying was 'worth his weight in gold.'


"No offense your magicness, but if a wizard was worth his weight in gold, I'd have no room for a profit."


"Better to be alive and penniless than dead and rich."


"A wise wizard," chuckles Captain Horatio. "Who would have guessed?"


Captain Horatio excuses himself and bustles about the ship, blowing his horn. What a pleasant fellow.


You watch as the magic island that has been your home for so many years shrinks in the distance. Leaving feels so weird, but when destiny calls, heroes must rise to the summons. Perhaps someday you will return.


Despite all the perils of the sea, your trip to Westengland is nothing but sugarplums and rainbows. Dear Lord are you sick of sugarplums. Captain Horatio could have stocked the ship with a wider and more nutritional array of foodstuffs. At least all of the rainbows are pretty to look at.


Thrilled to be back on dry land and away from the sugarplums, you hasten to the king's castle – aptly named King's Castle – on the outskirts of the capital city. The road reveals no signs of this evil wizard, though the lack of peasants proves quite disturbing. On second thought, perhaps that is a sign.


As you near King's Castle, the unmistakable and addicting allure of magic thickens in the air. Sweet, succulent, salacious magic. Coaxing your horse to gallop like she never galloped before and thanking God for the widespread success of the Rent-a-Horse industry, you burst onto the scene of a massive siege of King's Castle.


Grotesque trolls, disfigured by horrible magic spells, batter the gates with uprooted trees. Goblins beyond count shriek and swarm the outer walls on ladders crafted from bones. Wyverns – the dragon wannabes of the world – lash at the human defenders from above. Centaurs loose arrows and rape women, even in the midst of battle: the deviant equines. Mages cast spells and necromancers awaken the dead. The defenders fight with vigor and valiance only for the slain to arise and fight on. Most horrible of all, waves of human corpses throw themselves at the castle walls, snaking from the smoking ruins of the capital city down in the valley.


The evil wizard is really throwing the gauntlet at King's Castle. The castle may be beyond saving already. The old adage a wizard is never late or early isn't really true. Of course, a wizard can be late or early! They are human after all. Sort of. The wisest thing may be to find the king and save his sorry ass. Then again, heroes aren't known for always making the wisest decision. So how about it hero, do you pack enough punch to turn the tides of battle on your own?