The Glorious Victory of Sir Dayflower

Victor the Dayflower, a knight of triumph and glory, sat at the feast table, holding a flagon of ale in one hand and trying to make sure none of the fair maidens fawning over him jostled his bad arm, which hung in a sling about his neck.

Claudius, the rotund mayor of the Shire Blackwater, was just winding up his long and involved congratulatory speech and raised his mug toward the knight. "And so, we thank you, good Sir Dayflower, for ridding our fair shire of the Monstrous Wyrm that troubled us so. None shall ever forget your bravery. It shall be carried on through the generations, the Bravest knight in the land."

The townspeople cheered and drank to Sir Dayflower, Dragon slayer. The fair maidens, who no doubt would have been prey to the Dragon's fiendish appetites sooner of later, giggled and applauded and hung flower wreaths in his hair. Down the field from the feast tables, three burly butchers and their sons were hacking the neck off of the wyrm's body. The knight had been doubtful when the mayor suggested eating the beast, but the town council hastened to assure him that just over the two rivers in the Barony of Petersbridge they had feasted on the fine meat of the slain dragon, and sent some to the king himself.

The butchers had finally succeeded in their task; the people cheered again as the neck was borne aloft and skewered on the mayor's largest spit (big enough, the maidens told him, to roast a whole ox on the Feast Day of Saint George). It took the four biggest men in town to lift the spit and place it over the fire, which roared and hissed like the dragon itself when the bright blood dripped onto it.

Toasts were shouted out as men stoked the fire, tossing logs onto it, and a quick-witted traveling minstrel struck up the song he had just composed, giving all the glorious details of Brave Sir Dayflower's Battle with the Beast. Victor Dayflower sighed and settled back into his chair, watching the revels in tired satisfaction. This was his day, his reward for the bruises and burns, cuts and broken bones he had endured to slay the Wrym. Finally, he could relax.

The minstrel sang loudly, strumming his lute, and the townsfolk quickly picked up the repeating verse and sang along with gusto. Two of the butchers' sons turned the spit, muscles in their arms bulging with the effort. A delicate tongue of flame from the large fire brushed the now-dull scales of the neck.

The explosion was heard clear to Petersbridge.

On nearby Blackwater Mountain, two Wizards were playing chess at a low table. They looked up in time to see the Shire of Blackwater go up in a brief burst of flame, which disappeared the next instant, leaving only hills covered in ash. One sighed and moved his rook. "Will they never learn? Trying to roast a dragon is like trying to boil water in a straw basket; it simply doesn't work."

"Highly flammable," agreed his companion, capturing a pawn. "Pay up."

The first wizard sighed and dug out a small bag of coins from his sleeve and tossed it to him. "Enjoy. Any idea how Petersbridge figured it out?"

The second wizard tucked the money under his pointed hat. "I believe the Wizard Wulfric was passing through town that day and told them to boil it instead."

"Ahh," said the first, stroking his beard. "Wulfric has always been a tad soft-hearted."

"Pity really," the pointed hat bobbed as he nodded. "Pity."

"Aha!" exclaimed the first, "Checkmate!"

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A/n-- ...Mwa ha ha.

This idea struck me as hilarious and I wrote it all out on my typewriter in about 20 minutes, chortling to myself the whole time.

I have been rather slacking this summer in the writing/posting department, (sorry) so this is a little something to tide my readers over until after the Fair, which is this coming Friday. In theory, after the Fair I will be much less stressed and actually have free time to spend parodying and such, rather than speed-knitting and faster-than-light candle-dipping.

Allyp