Long Boring Author's Note: Okay, maybe this tale needs a bit of an introduction. (Or maybe not. Indulge me, okay?) First off, let me say that I am not a great fan of the art of parody. In fact, I'd be hard-pressed to think of a single parody I've truly enjoyed since I hit puberty and dropped Mad magazine from my reading list.

Despite that prejudice, for some time now, I've had this teeny itch in the back of my head—the desire to have a little fun with a Mary Sue character. And so I developed Syrene Stormfyre, a sorceress who has an affinity for ice and water-based spells. Her otherworldly appearance hints at the mystery of her parentage. Her skin is a pale shade of blue, and the perfection of her complexion is marred only by the fine tracery of scales that start at her collarbones and limn their way along her torso and upper arms. Her hair is a deeper shade of blue, matching the clear summer sky in the moments before the sun sinks into the horizon. Even on a still and sultry day, her hair moves as if a breeze is her constant companion.

Her eyes—ah, how to describe her eyes, when they change from moment to moment? Blue as a robin's egg, green as a shallow tropical sea, turquoise as an expertly cut beryl…you get the picture. She is a genasi. Genasi are rare along the Sword Coast but the child of a paraelemental is rare indeed. Syrene knows not the location, the fate or even the name of the ice elemental who sired her and left her the Stormfyre Bow—a graceful yet powerful weapon strung with lightning (or so it seems), which shoots magical arrows of ice.

Oh, did I mention her cute but rather idiotic ice mephit familiar? Nervous yet? Well, take heart. Syrene may pop up to haunt us later but she has only a cameo appearance in this story…

Ch. 1…A Challenge is Issued

Shandra filled her mug with tea from the urn on the side table. Judging by the dirty plates on the table, several of the Captain's companions had already had their breakfast. Casavir, Elanee and Kana were no doubt up before dawn. Qara, Aldanon, and Sand are no doubt still in their nice warm beds. The others could be anywhere. She lifted the cover to find that a smear of grease was all that remained of the sausages. Well, hells. At least there were some eggs left. She filled her plate and sat at the end of the table. Khelgar grunted a greeting. Neeshka gave her a bleary-eyed look. Shandra was mildly surprised to see her up so early. More likely the tiefling had yet to go to bed.

Khelgar had over a dozen sausages piled on his plate. Shandra leaned across the table and speared two with her fork. She'd had better manners once but Crossroad Keep had ground them out of her.

"Hey," Khelgar said but his protest held no heat. For a time, there was nothing but the sound of mastication.

"I hate her," Shandra said, once she'd wiped her plate clean with a heel of stale bread. The day's baking was late, as usual. Neeshka raised one brow.

"Who?" But she knew. "Our illustrious captain? What has she done now?"

"Well, you know how Sir Nevalle had the bright idea that we have a Midwinter festival to celebrate our progress in renovating this moldy old keep?" As if we had much progress to celebrate—we started out knee-deep in chaos and now we're hip-deep. If we're all alive come spring, it will be a miracle.

"A grand idea, that," Khelgar said. "Sal's got enough ale and mead on the way from Neverwinter to fill a moat and I heard that Lord Nasher is paying for it all. I bet we've got Sir Nevalle to thank for that."

"Wow, a keep full of drunken soldiers and workers. Has possibilities," Neeshka said.

"Yeah, well, as if that isn't exciting enough," Shandra said drily, "Syrene decided that we need to have games. With prizes."

"Games?" Khelgar asked. "What kind of games?"

"What kind of prizes?" Neeshka asked.

"How in the Nine Hells should I know?" Shandra asked.

"Heh, heh, some poor slob is going to have to figure something out quick," Neeshka said. "We've only got what? A tenday? Less?"

"Six days," Shandra said. "Counting today."

"Who'd she stick with that thankless task?" Khelgar asked. "Casavir? Wish that lad would grow some, ahem, grow a spine and say no."

"He did. He claims he's too busy training the Greycloaks, darn him. When he turned her down, she gave the job to me. Hah, hah, very funny, go ahead and laugh," she said, as if the two had waited for permission. Shandra covered her face with her hands and groaned. "What am I going to do? I don't know anything about planning a festival."

"Seems simple enough," Khelgar said. "What you need is a drinking contest, a wrestling match and a hammer toss." He cut his eyes at Neeshka and added, "And a nice game of Pin the Tail on the Tiefling for the kiddies."

"What kiddies? The only little folks around here are you and Grobnar and you ain't pinning nothing on me. I'm thinking a scavenger hunt. You can get Aldanon and Grobnar to make up the clues. And for the grand finale…a dwarf toss across the river, if it hasn't frozen over."

"I don't know," Shandra said doubtfully. "We could have a dance, I guess. There sure are a lot more men than women though. Do you think the men will mind dancing with each other?"

"Yes," Khelgar said. "They will. Most of them, anyway. Is Sir Nevalle going to be here?"

"I think so. Why?"

"Never mind."

"Oh." Shandra sighed. "In Highcliff we had sack races and pie-eating contests and prizes for the best quilts and preserves. That just doesn't sound much like what Syrene had in mind. The only thing we tossed was…well…"

"What?" Khelgar asked, with a glare for Neeshka.

"Cow chips."

Neeshka and Khelgar gave her almost identical blank stares.

"What's a cow chip?" Neeshka finally asked.

"You know," Shandra said. Obviously they don't. Guess neither one of them has been on a farm except to burn it down. "Grass goes in one end and, um, the chip comes out the other."

"Ewww," Neeshka said. "And you pick them up? With your hands?"

"Not when they're warm and fresh," Shandra said. "But after they've hardened up, they're not so bad. In fact, there's rather an art to picking a good throwing chip. A nice flat one's the best, not too big and not too small. You want it to be moist in the center, for the weight, but with a thick enough crust that it won't squish in your hand…"

"Gods, Shandra, not while we're eating!"

Khelgar made a throaty rumble.

"For once, I have to agree with the tiefling."

After consulting with what seemed like half the keep, Shandra came up with a list of games and prizes. The prizes were easy: in exchange for letting him off the hook for judging, Sand had agreed to put light enchantments on the armor, weapons, and jewelry that she had persuaded the smiths and Deekin to donate.

There were so many details to manage that she'd taken to carrying a little note case and an enchanted writing stick that she'd borrowed from Kana.

"In fact, I'm starting to feel like Kana," she told Grobnar, whom she had drafted as her aide. "Have you noticed how people are starting to avoid me? I swear I'll never give her a hard time about the paperwork again."

"Well, you look like yourself," Grobnar said. "Which is good because otherwise how would I tell the two of you apart?"

"She's the calm one; I'm the hysterical one. Have you scribed the signup lists for the tug of war teams?"

"I did and I posted them in the mess hall. Ten to a team, right?" Shandra nodded. "Can I sign up the Construct? You know he can't write. Yet."

"Um. Sure but he's got to be on a team by himself."

"That hardly seems fair if you're going to allow Khelgar…"

"He'll be busy judging the Brawl." Shandra flipped open the note case. Make sure all the healers are standing by. She thought and then added, Ask Sand to enchant some really strong rope.

"Okay then. What about the rules for the horseless horse race?"

"There's got to be a mount and a rider. Neither one of them can be a horse."

"Yes, but what about summons? What if someone summons, say, a wyvern? And how about shape-changing—is that allowed? Is it okay to use haste spells?"

"Oh, gosh. I'd say no flying beasts and no speed potions or spells." She opened the case again. "We'd better run this by Sand and get him to write up the rules in that lawyer talk of his. If folks are going to cheat, okay, but let's make them work for it."

"I like…say, there's Sir Bishop. Didn't you want to speak to him?" Grobnar's voice could be very carrying when he chose. "Sir Bishop! Over here please!"

Shandra elbowed him.

"Why do you call him that?" she whispered. "You know he's not a knight and that just infuriates…" She cut herself off when she saw his eyes twinkling up at her. Oh, Grobnar, how we underestimate you sometimes.

Bishop sauntered over. He was wearing his leathers and had his unstrung hunting bow tied to his pack.

"What."

"Are you going hunting?" Shandra asked a bit stiffly. She'd never quite forgiven him for his rude words when Syrene freed her from the githyanki and he'd done nothing but needle her since, when he even deigned to acknowledge her existence.

"Figure that out all by yourself?"

Shandra frowned but soldiered on.

"Hold on a bit then. We need a lot of extra meat for the festival feast. We're going to be slaughtering some cows but deer would be nice and whatever else you can scare up. I need you to get a team together with a wagon or horses, whatever you prefer for hauling it all back to the keep."

Bishop gave her one incredulous look and turned on his heel. Shandra grabbed the back of his pack.

"Hey, now, I need your help here." He whirled, eyes narrowed. Shandra let go and took a step back.

"I don't take orders from you, farm girl."

"I know that, but this is for Syrene. We've all got to do our bit to help out. You live here too, you know."

If anything, his eyes turned colder.

"Get this through your head. I don't take orders from the Captain either."

Oh, yeah? Well, I haven't seen you turn one down yet. But Shandra wanted to live so she kept that thought to herself.

"If you're not going to help, you can forget about participating in the games."

"Now that's some threat," he said contemptuously. "As if I'd be interested in winning your paltry prizes."

"Who said anything about winning? I think this is your way of avoiding a humiliating defeat."

"You think? And who is going to beat me? You?"

"I might."

"That would be the day."

"Anything you can do, I can do better."

"Hah!"

"I can do anything better than you."

"No, you can't."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't." (see footnote)

"If you're so gods-darned sure of yourself, prove it. Sign up for any of the contests and I'll beat your pants, er, beat your socks off."

"Big words for a little farm girl. What are you willing to stake?"

"Name it."

Bishop gave her one of his slow lascivious grins.

"Let the winner decide."

Footnote: It is rumored that this conversation inspired Grobnar to write his famous ballad, Shannie Get Your Trebuchet.