|The tale of the DrawBridge
||[Jan. 27th, 2004|11:14 am]
The Council of Nine
A fortnight ago, I had arrived rather untimely to the Councilmen's Lair, for I had been busy during the afternoon hours fighting off Dark Mages, Dragons and Harpies to protect our sacred land as well as the Tome of Knowledge. My steed galloped exhaustedly, for our day's journey seemed like an entire score's worth of adventures. I dismounted the beast, and stroked its hairs with tenderness and a fine attention to the curvature of it's body. My beloved horse continued to gasp for air, even as I stroked it's soft coiffure to ease it's exasperated lungs. My heart grew quite weary for the cause of my equestarian companion, so I doused the tips of my fingers with my own saliva, and pinched the tip of his swollen member and he delivered a high mule kick that nearly reached the stars! I hadn't seen my steed perform such arial prowess since our battles at the Park of Citrus! Unfortunately, he no longer has the same balance, and collapsed as I had intended. He layed unconscious for the remainder of the evening, finding refuge in the curious tricks of the sandman and his magic slumber dust.|
With my lance tucked deep within my jock and a small bag of gnome nogg handy, I summoned that the drawbridge be opened so that I may enter the Councilmen's Lair. On a normal occasion, one of the Council's servants, all former Black Mages of Timberland, acknowledge our beckoning to enter the lair and thus letting down the bridge. I shoulded with all of the wind in my lungs, releasing a chinook of furious bellows. Where on Quarter-Earth could the Council Servants be? Were they not aware of the importance of my attendence of this night's Council Meeting?
I drew my lance, raising it with fiery passion into the dark sky. I challenged the evil gods of lightning and petty defiance to a game of wits or fencing. I swung the mighty sword of Story in all directions, surely beheading small birds and defacing shrubbery.
"Why dost thou defy me! I am of the Council of Nine!" I cried to the gods, secretly hoping one of the foolish servants would be listening nearby.
"I command this drawbridge to open for me. For my honor!"
If lightning had cracked, or a fire errupted, my anger was such that I would have been able to splice these forces of nature in two with my cutlass!
All of a sudden, I felt a soft touch of fingertips arrive on my shoulder, followed by the sound of piercing laughter. I turned to see that it was none other than the young Ashton of Kutcher. He wore a traveler's helmet and his lips seemed red like the blood of a young deer. Though his pyhsical appearance enticed me, I was not amused by his laughter.
"Comrade," he exclaimed, "You have just been Hoodwink'd!"
I grinned, drew my lance and inserted the sword into his torso.
"And you" I proclaimed, "Have just been Branish'd!"