Meanwhile at the Withershins Inn… the… um…

**sigh**

Sorry. Sorry. Still just a bit shaken from the… the… last time.

You know. Last time? The whole… essingmay upyay ethay orystay?

What do you mean you don’t speak Pig Latin? Everyone… Oh, for fates sake. Messing up the story. I changed things and…

…

Oh no.

Have I been doing it all along? There was the sign when she was lost in the woods. And then the lightening with the bridge and the trolls and… and…

No. Nonononono. This can’t be happening.

I will not calm down. Rule number one for narrators: never interfere. EVER. It’s sacred. I signed an oath and everything. Someone will find out and then they’ll take away my license and I’ll have to find work as a MIME!

**SMACK**

…

Thanks. **rubs cheek** Needed that. I think.

Ahem. As I was saying… no one knows. So… I’ll just not do it again and it’ll be fine. Right?

Right.

Okay.

The inn. We’re at the inn. And… Madame and her companion are still cackling in the corner over their drinks. Nothing I can possibly screw up here.

Moving on.

***

Moving on. Moooooving on.

Village of Trollsbridge. Right. Jailbreak in progress. Check. Nothing I can interfere with. Nothing at all… Right.

Where’s our girl?

Ah! There. Getting on with things without any interference from her narrator whatsoever. None. Just…

…

What is she doing?

Our fair heroine, having scanned the alley for any obvious eyes on her, has shed her travel cloak and is now… um… rolling in the mud and dirt and other interesting leavings to be found in the back alleys of fairytale villages. And now she’s mussing up her hair and—

“I regret this already,” our girl mutters right before she winds up and delivers herself a slap of the type usually reserved for handsy drunks at the bar.

Oh, my. That’s gonna leave a mark.

Now sporting a thoroughly disheveled appearance and a dirty red hand print on her cheek, Elaine stumbles out of the alley and toward the entrance of the jail. She pushes open the heavy wooden door to find herself in a front office decorated with wanted posters and a trove of hunting trophies lining the walls. Behind a heavy wooden desk sits a large man with an extravagant but well groomed mustache. A small brass nameplate introduces him as “Sheriff Roger of Bakingham”.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

Bakingham: the inevitable shortening of The Baking Hamlet, a tiny village south of Trollsbridge once known for its hot cross buns and shortbread. However, now enough people believe the name refers to Baking Hams that a thriving sub business has cropped up.

But enough about that.

“Please, sir! Please help me!”

Goodness. With that quavering voice and pleading eyes one would never guess this is our brave girl, the terror of drunken gnomes and half trolls everywhere.

“My dear maiden! What has happened?” The burly sheriff leaps up with surprising speed and assists a trembling Elaine into a chair. “Tell me, fair one, what is your name and what has befallen you?”

Fair one? Goodness. He is a charmer. I think I quite like him. In spite of the unfortunate facial hair.

Oh, sorry. Yes. Back to the point.

Elaine is fluttering her hands helplessly, clearly playing up the dismayed and defenseless damsel angle for all it’s worth as she wracks her clever brain.

“Um. My name… yes… is… Tisket!”

…

Tisket? She’s going with Tisket? Oh, dear. Just please don’t tell him you’re last name is Tasket. I beg you.

“My name is Tisket. And I was walking through town headed to the Skarsburg Market to sell out our wares. My gran can’t leave so it’s up to me to sell the baskets we make. Without the trip to the market this year I don’t know if gran will survive.”

A thoroughly convincing sniffle has the sheriff patting her hand and pulling out a handkerchief to dab at the dirt on her face. “But what befell you, my dear? What great calamity has driven you to my humble door?”

Elaine’s gaze is flickering wildly about the room, clearly seeking inspiration and…

And now it’s narrowing in on one particular wanted poster that’s… uh oh… very familiar. I do believe the glint in Elaine’s eye is now something akin to malicious glee. Oh dear.

“Him!”

Our resourceful (and vengeful) heroine’s cry nearly sets the good sheriff on his backside.

“He befell me!” She stabs a gleeful finger toward the poster in question. “I was pulling my cart into town when he and his men jumped out of the bushes and grabbed it. I tried to fight back, but they were too strong. I told them I would go to the sheriff, but they only laughed and said ‘Robyn’s not afraid of that old gasbag’.”

Our solicitous sheriff stiffens and Elaine adds quickly, “Those were their words. Not mine.”

The good man is on his feet with a swiftness surprising in a man of his girth and bellowing toward the inner recesses of the jail house.

“Guards! GUARDS! Robyn, the scourge of Trilby, is back plaguing my town! Take everyone, EVERYONE, and hunt the filth down. I want his head on my desk before tomorrow’s noontide and his innards as pennants for the town square.”

Goodness. Seems our silver-tongued sheriff can be quite… um… bloodthirsty. Do you think he’ll mount Robyn’s head with the rest of his hunting trophies? It might look a bit odd, but there’s certainly a space for it between the ogre and that massive stag.

What? Oh, sorry. Where were we?

Oh, yes. The sheriff of Bakingham and Trollsbridge is ordering out his men. Soon the jail house will be emptied and Elaine will be free to—

“Ghomar!” the sheriff snaps. “You’ll remain and keep watch over the young lady.”

Damn.

With a perfunctory nod to Elaine, the sheriff snatches up his sword and storms out the door with his men.

Well, that only leaves one guard for our brave heroine to deal with and…

Oh, dear.

The man who enters the front room clearly has giant’s blood somewhere in his lineage. At nearly seven feet tall with limbs that would make an ogre jealous, Ghomar towers over our fair maiden, eclipsing her and nearly half the room in his shadow. A cheerful but incongruous smile crosses his blocky face.

"Hello, little one," Ghomar's thick bass voice rattles the windows. "Can I get you some water?"

Elaine swallows. “Um. Yes, please.”

Oh, my. Hopefully the water is outside the room. Preferably across town and… And no. It’s in a water jug on the corner table. Right. Our girl is going to need some quick thinking to get out of this one, fair reader. It’s truly a—

What?

NO! Absolutely not!

No, I cannot interfere. Before was a mistake but—

Yes, yes, I know she needs help, but it’s against the rules. I can’t just go “And the ogre head falls off the wall and knocks Ghomar out.” That would be—

**CLUNK**

…

…

Well, shit.

***

Meanwhile at the Withershins Inn…