[A deserted roadside close to dusk. Under a lightning-blasted oak, two hooded black-robed monks are crouched by a sputtering campfire. They speak in low, harsh growls.] 1st monk. The Lord Gordon expects us ere the waning of the red moon. We needst must hasten our loping gait come morn. 2nd monk. It is so. I too have marked that we cover some four miles less when limping in our crooked fashion. Yet, it is written that the Terror must be maintained. It is the Way. 1st monk. Even so, dark brother, mayhap we should assume the brisk pace of a country traveller when not bespied, but return immediately to a silent, mangled-toe walk should we chance upon the local peasantry. 2nd monk. Verily. 'Tis a worthy experiment we shall try on the 'morrow. But look you darkly now, for two such peasants approach us. [Enter Sir Bastien Gudo and Grig Syllable - dirty, weary, and exhausted to the point of collapse] Sir Bastien. Forsooth, good brothers of dark-coloured cloth will you spare us some wine or warm chicken broth? We've battled through thorns and thickets and briers, we're tired and thirsty, what say you black friars? 2nd monk. Accept the blessings of Amalkon the Slayer, yokels. Sir Bastien. Perhaps after some food, and a little bit of rest but for the moment we're poor audience for jest. My minstrel companion may even sing you a song I am certain he'll catch his breath before long 2nd monk. You may partake of the spitted deer carcass in the fire. So do all things return to the Thrice-Named One. Sir Bastien. And well it is so, for I'm direly starved I'd eat a whole hog uncooked and uncarved In fact I think I've even done so before Now was it the Seige of Tourlane or the Sindian War? 1st monk. Much blood was shed at the Tourlane in the name of the Red-Eyed Fathers. The Slayer was pleased... he reaped many souls on the Third Day. 2nd monk. Igni dul dies toludin. And it is not yet ended... Grig. Ah, such excellent deer, such succulent fare! Dear charitable hosts, such kindness is rare. I am prompted to sing a heart-stirring ode Good luck to your faith, good cheer on the road! [stands up and clears his throat, then sings] There once was a priest who squeaked like a rat His flock could hear nought wherever they sat They'd screw up their ears and shut up their brats But still they'd hear nought unless they were bats Somedays they would hear 'blessed are the meek then 'squeak squeak squeak, squeak squeak squeak squeak' They quickly grew bored, their faith sprung some leaks, they'd be buzzing like ducks with bees in their beaks And soon they were planning for parties in prayer From whispers to shouts as loud as a dare 'Who'll bring the steaks and ale and the chairs?' 'This party will be as big as towne fairs!' And then the day came and all did assemble On a big grassy field to gambol and gamble But the gathering clouds began to resemble A big ugly rat god who turned them all into cheese wheels! Sir Bastien. Ha ha ha, but Grig that's a good one! Whenever I hear it, my eyes start to run With rivers of tears, tears of great joy. What humour and wisdom only you could deploy! 1st monk. We should enjoin this bard to accompany us to Lord Gordon's, so as to carve out his tuneless spleen in honour of Amalkon. 2nd monk. His screams will be all the music he needs make. Sir Bastien & Grig [in unison]. LORD GORDON??? Grig. Have at thee, blackhearted monks!! At 'emmmm, Guddddoo!! Sir Bastien. Die, bastards, die!!! Huaaargghh!! [With a viciousness born as much from hunger as from righteous fury, Sir Bastien and Grig Syllable proceed to give the two sinister monks the drubbing of their lives. In minutes, the acolytes of Amalkon are prone, unconscious, and bleeding on the floor.] copyright 1997 Gerald Tan & Nigel Poh Click on the dragon to proceed with the tale... ... the dagger to go to the previous page ... and the snoozing gnome to return to the Home Page. Currently playing "Mr Crowley" by Ozzy Osbourne.