Ah. The first light of a new day is breaking over our fairytale kingdom. The birds are caroling madly, and one almost expects the inhabitants of our quaint little royal town to burst into choreographed dance. Though I rather expect that would get the lot of them turned into newts by the town witch.

She’s not much of a morning person, fates bless her. Granted, her newt victims do tend to get better, given time. But they’ve been known to suffer from a preference for flies and nice cool wells ever after, either of which is likely to put a, uh, damper on one’s social life.

*wink*

…

Nothing? Really?

Oh, fine. Be that way. Where was I?

Right. No dancing. Moving on.

The Withershins Inn. Such a proud edifice. Home to the famous Blue Hedgehog and the best elf lager in three kingdoms. Unless you’re asking the elves, of course. But then they are known to be a bit snooty about such things, what with their halls of starlight and dancing in woodland vales and such. A bit eccentric, if you ask me.

In any case, this paragon palace of liquid delights sits just two streets off the town square and within easy stumbling distance of all the best parties. Also, coincidently, within even easier stumbling distance of the best alleys and sewers for relieving oneself of said delights.

But that’s beside the point. We’re looking for our fair fairy. Ah! And there she is.

Madame Sarsenet.

The day is new sprung, the detritus of last night’s festivities is being tossed out with the wash water, and our good Madame is peeling her face off a sticky blue counter with a decided grimace. Goodness. She appears to have passed the entire night glued, quite literally, to Billy’s bar.

Poor Billy, it must be said, was none too pleased to have another unexpected guest for the whole evening. That’s in addition to the troll passed out in the outhouse, and the goblins who broke into the wine cellar and apparently had a small party with pixie dust and toadstools before anyone found them. Trust me, it was not pretty.

However, in spite of these trials, our poor put-upon publican was still smart enough to stay clear of drunken fairy spells. Seeing as he values remaining a man and not accidentally waking up to find himself with webbed toes and a predilection for golden balls and kissing dim-witted princesses—honestly, what is it with spell-workers and amphibious creatures—he graciously left Madame to sleep. But now it’s morning and he might be banging the kegs and slop buckets just a tich too loudly.

Just a tich.

Our fair inebriate blinks bleary eyes and calls in sepulchral tones for the panacea of all morning ills.

“Coffee.”

This, with a few mutterings that are best not set down in print, Billy duly fetches. He slaps the steaming mug onto the counter and goes back to thumping buckets.

Our friendly neighborhood godmother pries the mug off the bar and downs half the scalding contents in one go. Honestly, fairies must have a wonderful heat tolerance. And taste tolerance, for that matter. Coffee is not one of the, um, liquid delights Billy is known for. Its more in the get-this-drunk-on-his/her/its-feet-and-out-the-door vein. So a decided lack of taste buds is definitely a plus.

However, the wondrous foul brew must have a near instantaneous effect on fairies for here is Madame scrubbing streaming eyes and coughing fit to burst her wings off after half a cup.

Fates. Wonder what Billy puts in that stuff.

Sally the golem—she’s the cook and part-time bouncer. I once saw her send a dwarf through a brick wall with one fist. Not that it slowed the dwarf down much. Harder than rock, those little heads. Almost as hard as Sally’s scones—anyway, she swears Billy adds powdered basilisk spit to the brew. I thought the big girl was joking, but… perhaps not.

Mysterious and possibly life altering ingredients aside, Madame Sarsenet appears to be suffering from a near instantaneous recovery. She… um… I’ll just wait till you’re done coughing, shall I?

Right.

Hmm. Fair reader, have I ever told you about the chicken-legged house of the Witch of the Western Wilds? No? Well. While we have time, why don’t I—

Oh. All finished? Need a handkerchief?

Um. No, I suppose your sleeve will do just as well. Ugh. Right. Well, then. We’ll leave questionable architectural design and appalling manners for another time and get on with things, shall we?

As I was saying, Madame’s hangover appears to have been miraculously and brutally cured, which I’m fairly certain is all to the good. I mean really, we must have better things to be doing with our story than hanging around a bar, yes? Of course, yes.

So, having finally succeeded in drowning her woes—by pure dint of holding the little suckers under—Ms. Sarsenet has resurfaced and is prepared to get on with her life. All feckless barmaids and dashed hopes of rubbing her presidency of the LLHFG in her cousin Ermentrude’s supercilious face are past and can now be forgotten. Madame is a fully grown godmother after all, not some hormone racked teenage sprite who can’t deal with disappointment.

Yes, she is picking up her dignity and her wand from beneath the barstool and preparing to—

*Blurp*

To cast another scrying puddle.

Oh, for fates sake. Just let it go! The girl is gone and…

And I might as well be talking to the mop bucket. Fine. Have it your way. Let’s take a look.

***

Somewhere, many leagues away, the pale but eager light of morning is brightening the way for a cheerful band of travelers urging on a horse and cart loaded down with a… a heap of sacks? Hmm. In any case, this lovely scene is—

Wait.

The sacks are moving.

And swearing. Profusely.

Animated profane sacking. How magical. What will they think of next.

Yes. I’m being sarcastic. You can tell by the sarcasm dripping liberally from every word. In any case, sarcasm is going to be the least of those idiots problems if they— Ah, there she is.

Our fearless Elaine has shaken herself free of the sacking, but not the ropes binding her. And now she cries out in the sweet and dulcet tones of captured fairytale maidens everywhere:

“What the hell do you halfwit worms think you’re doing?!”

One of the travelers drops his horse back to pace beside the wagon bed. Oh, look. It’s our oozy friend with freshly cleaned black leather and buttery smile back in place.

“Haha! The raven haired beauty is awake. Good morrow, my sweet. Sleep well?”

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Elaine’s response is a string of rather acidic words that could have peeled the varnish off armor, and probably would have gotten her mouth scrubbed out with lye had her dear granny—fates rest her—been alive to hear.

Tall, dark and smarmy shakes his head sadly, a sorrow that’s about as sincere as boot lacquer. “Tut! Tut! I did warn you to beware of unscrupulous characters. Even offered my protection. Didn’t I lads?”

A chorus of enthusiastic grunts from the other ne’er-do-wells greets this. The leader smiles and gives the what-can-you-do-with-a-woman shrug common to men everywhere, the one that typically gets them thwacked upside the back of the head with an encyclopedia.

“I would have even fended off the fleas for you.” The wink that accompanies this is about as endearing as bread mold.

Elaine’s smile is so bright it could cut the heels off a pair of diamond shoes. “I’d rather be eaten by trolls.”

The leader shakes his head again. “Alas, there are no trolls to be had.” He grins. “How do you feel about dragons?”

“Preferable to spending time with a mirror-loving dandy who couldn’t find his brain with both hands and a pick-axe.”

Our lubricious friend grins even wider. “Well, then. We’ll have to see if we can’t help you out.”

Before our sweet-tongued heroine can spout the obviously profane response she is contemplating, the bandit leader forges ahead.

“But where are my manners? We have not yet been properly introduced.” Every unctuous word practically drips. Seriously, this guy could lubricate an entire water mill with one sentence. “I am Robyn, Earl—”

“Robin?!” Now Elaine is the one grinning. “Your parents named you for a bird? Is that because you have such a small peck—”

“No! Robyn! There’s a y! Why is it no one can ever hear the y?”

“What’s a why?” a particularly sparkling example of literate bandit-hood asks his neighbor.

“As I was saying,” our newly introduced Robyn casts a less than suave glare at his companions before attempting to settle back into his role of oh-so-charming rogue, “I am Robyn, Earl of Trylbi. Unjustly stripped of my lands, I am forced to—”

“Isn’t a trilby a type of hat?” Elaine asks.

Another rising star of intelligent bandits everywhere frowns. “I thought it was that village over east of Frogspawn.”

Robyn throws up his free hand. “Oh, for fates’ sake! I am trying to have a moment here. Can we please hold the commentary till my monologue is over? Yes? Thank you.”

“Oh, by all means!” our charming Elaine coos with enough honeyed sweetness to make any rational being retch. “So. You’re a bird with a tiny peck—”

“NO!”

“—who’s been robbed of his hat. Do continue.”

It’s quite possible at this point that our bandit leader is beginning to rethink his choice in captives. Or at least his obvious lack of foresight in failing to gag her. A revelation common to several men of Elaine’s previous acquaintance.

But Rob—

What? No!

I was referring to the gagging bit. Not the taking captive part. Honestly, do try to keep your mind out of the midden. What kind of story do you think I’m telling here?

*sigh* Ought to gag you.

What? Oh, no. No, no. I wasn’t saying anything. Merely contemplating the level of mental refinement of the general reader. Where was I?

Ah, yes.

Our oh-so-out-of-his-depth-it’s-not-even-funny-okay-maybe-a-little-funny bandit leader is struggling valiantly to regain his hold on all that slippery charm.

“Ahem. As I was saying...”

“Frog in your throat?” Elaine blinks up at him with such a pantomime of pure innocence it should have sent her straight to the ninth hell. “Or is it a worm? I do hear that’s a problem for birds.”

“As I was saying…”

Clearly Robyn has now decided his best course of action is to pretend his delightful guest is incapable of speech and proceed forthwith.

“Having been villainously robbed of my lands, I and my men are now forced to eke out a living as common highwaymen. I assure you it is an occupation deeply at odds with our more cultured sensibilities.”

Another chorus of grunts greets this proclamation.

“Oh, yeah. A regular pack of toffs, you lot,” Elaine mutters. “Make goblins look like first rate citizens.”

Truly, the level of deafness our bandit leader has suddenly developed is quite remarkable. Miraculous even. Though he does seem to be grinding the words through his teeth a bit.

“Adverse though we are to such vile actions,” yes, definitely grinding, “needs must. Therefore, it is with heavy hearts that we relieve those the fates have graced with a few too many riches of a small portion of their burden. And by so doing, ease the poverty of the less fortunate.”

He draws a plump leather purse out of his pocket and bounces it on his palm.

“The less fortunate, of course, being us. You know, my sweet,” his grin is now firmly back in place, “I really must thank you for your generous contribution.”

Oh, dear. I do believe… yes. Yes, it is. The purse he is bouncing is Elaine’s, containing all the hard won gold from her pawned fairy duds.

“I—that—you—” For once, the heroine of our story actually appears to be almost speechless.

Either that or she’s about to explode in a truly mind bendingly impressive fountain of profanity. At this point, I’d say it’s a toss up.

“In addition, my darling,” Robyn tucks the purloined purse away, “the assistance you are about to provide in furthering our next raid shall be truly invaluable. Truly.”

Our fearless Elaine leans as far forward against the ropes as she can and hisses her deepest and most fervent wish.

“Get dead.”

Our bandit leader favors her with another oily wink. “Ladies first. Ah! We’ve nearly arrived.”

Elaine is left to mutter a string of rather imaginative oaths—along with a colorful and detailed list of all the possible modes of death she might apply to him—as the once again cheerful Robyn spurs his horse on ahead.

Let us, fair reader, now draw back and examine the scene from above. Below us we see the bandits and their cart, with its unwilling and still cursing passenger, trundling off the main road onto a faint and rather bumpy track that winds through a forest clumped at the base of a small but impressive mountain range. This track goes for some little way before fading out in a large clearing strewn with boulders.

Having reached the clearing, Elaine is now being hauled from the cart none too gently. Our valiant girl is, as is only right, gaining some level of recompense for this via several well aimed kicks and at least one solid bite to various of the offending characters. She is now not the only one using profane language.

Nevertheless, courage—and, well let’s face it, general pissed offedness—notwithstanding, she is drug to the largest boulder and a whole new set of ropes wound about to hold her fast. We shall now, I’m afraid, have to dive back into the scene, but… Yes. Let’s give it a moment, shall we? Just until we can do so without blistering our ears.

So. Such a lovely forest. And lovely mountains. And such a lovely large cave in the cliff face over there. It is quite a spectacular view. Really a—

Hm? Oh, you’re right. She does seem to have run out of curses. Given her extensive vocabulary I rather thought it would take longer. Let’s drop back in, shall we?

“…truly couldn’t do this without your assistance, my pet.” Robyn is now dismounted and purring at Elaine in oily tones from only a few feet away.

“Do what?” Goodness. I do believe that was actually a growl.

“Why rob the dragon, of course. Didn’t I mention dragons. I was fairly certain I had. In any case, the vile beast is sitting on a hoard worth three kingdoms. And that, my darling, simply won’t do. Letting a monster like that keep all that gold? It’d be a travesty of justice.”

“A travesty.”

“Indeed,” Robyn purrs on. “Unfortunately, the last time we attempted to enact a more equitable redistribution of such clearly ill-gotten wealth, the creature returned and interrupted us. Lost two of my best men.” He heaves a sigh worthy of any melodrama.

“So sad.”

“Sad indeed. And that, my sweet, is where you come in.”

“Oh, do tell.”

Hmm. You know, Elaine’s voice is rather alarmingly calm…

“Well, dragons are known to have a preference for maidenly…” his eyes slide over her in a supremely oily fashion—seriously, did no one teach this man manners?—and settle somewhere a bit south of her face, “… flesh.”

Elaine blinks at him. “So I’m bait.”

Um. You know, all this feminine quietness is actually starting to, uh, concern me. Just a bit. Perhaps… Yes. I think, fair reader, that we should step back a little. I’m fairly certain we can still hear from behind that rock over there. Probably. Shall we?

“Indeed,” Robyn oozes.

Our heroine blinks again, and…

Bursts into tears.

Oh, dear.

“Cruel! So cruel!” Elaine sobs with a volume worthy of any diva. “A strong man like you to leave a defenseless woman to be *sob* eaten. All the things we might have done. The *sob* passion we might have shared. And you’re just going to *sob* abandon me! To a monster!”

Robyn, like most men when confronted with a crying female, is looking slightly poleaxed at this point.

“Well, pet, you did say—”

“Cruel man! At least *sob* at least grant me one last request.”

He takes a step toward her. “I don’t—”

“Something only *sob* a man like you can give me. I’ll never *sob* have another chance. Not after today. You wouldn’t let me die without *sob* without having, just once…”

Robyn closes the rest of the distance and strokes a finger down her tear-stained cheek to lift her chin. “Oh, sweetling. I don’t think we’ve time for all that but—”

*BAM*

And Elaine’s knee collides with his, um, yeah… Shut up. You owe me ten gold pieces.

“Oh, much better!”

Miraculous isn’t it, how Elaine’s tears have suddenly vanished. Truly remarkable. Such a talented girl.

“I do feel better now. Thank you so ever much.” She grins down at the bandit’s collapsed form.

Robyn’s moaning—and possibly crippled for life—body is lifted into the cart and hurriedly borne away by his less than cheerful men. Shortly, our heroine finds herself alone. Alone in a forest clearing, far from any aid, bound to a boulder and awaiting a hungry dragon. Things look truly dire and—

“Well, bugger this.”

And she begins to scrub the ropes against a slightly sharper than not ridge of stone. All things being equal, I’d say she has a better than average chance of getting free before—

*CRASH*

Um. Was that you, fair reader? No? You didn’t drop something large and heavy in the forest over there? You’re certain?

…

Oh, dear…

***

Meanwhile at the Withershins Inn…