Prologue the Third (Really? Third? Honestly?): Gonedaft the Grizzled
It was a bad time to be a wizard. No one seemed to need advice anymore. Gonedaft the Grizzled, Wizard Extraordinaire, sat back in the dwarf pub, allowing the thud of hurling axes and the horrid jangle of dwarf folk music to wash over him. Overhead, someone was swinging off the chandelier, hobnailed boots turning the taller windows into occasional bursts of glass. Iron helmets were hurtling through the air, often with the heads inside. Gonedaft sighed. Even the cultural ambiance failed to excite him.
“You Gonedaft?”
Upon noting that the bartender in front of him was
A.Missing any law enforcement badges and
B.Holding out a drink
Gonedaft acknowledged with a nod that Gonedaft might just well be him.
“He sent it over.”
Gonedaft turned to spy a dwarf sitting at the next table over, who gave him a hopeful nod. As Gonedaft glanced over the pink spangled tights and dwarf-forged ballet slippers, he reflected that he might be the wrong pronoun in this case. Although, on reflection, the dwarf seemed too good looking to be female. Though Gonedaft had fervently been hoping to the contrary, the dwarf came and joined him for a spell. So to speak. “Gonedaft the wizard?”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard–”
“I am Torn, King who would be under the mountain if he had any choice about it.” Torn stood up on his chair, and his voice grew deep and soulful. “You see, once, in a land so rural not even a halfling would want to visit it, stood the kingdom of Ared’dôr–”
“Stop right there, I just read the prologue.” Gonedaft eyed him. “Dwarf cabaret? Really?”
“It pays the bills.” Torn took off his tiny lavender tutu and blew his nose on it absently. “I had thought to settle down peacefully with my people. However, after being reminded what dwarf women look like, I realized I should attempt the quest and reclaim my homeland.”
Gonedaft sat back in his chair. “Let me get this straight. You’ve come to me in this heroes’ bar to tell me you’re the deposed heir to an ancient kingdom on a mission to reclaim your throne and slay the dragon, a pack of questors by your side, and you’ve figured all this out without a mysterious bearded wizard?”
Thorn blinked. “Why? Did I do this in the wrong order?”
“Oh, a bit,” said Gonedaft grouchily. “Heroes sorting themselves out without the help of ancient and all-discerning wizards? I’ll be out of a job by Thursday.”
“You could come with us,” Thorn suggested brightly. “There’s lots of good work in questing. Slaying monsters with your awesomely arcane powers and so forth. And there's always die Cabaret.”
“And vanishing at the moment I’m most needed, so you must persevere on your own!” Gonedaft added helpfully. “That’s a mentor’s number one job.”
“That and dying,” Thorn said a bit absently, not noticing how Gonedaft paled. “I’m looking for aid from the greatest powers of goodness in Renfair Earth. Are you with me?”
“Ah.” Gonedaft preened a little.
“But not the snooty elves. Or barbaric humans. And my own folk turned me down. I went to see the rangers, but they already have a deposed king with a cooler sword than mine.”
“So I’m the most powerful person you could find?”
“Since the wizard Sourman wasn’t home, yeah, pretty much.”
Gonedaft considered. “I suppose I could lend a staff. But I still want to start the story off properly. You know, show up at some little blighter’s house and tell him he’s destined for a great adventure.”
“I think that longship sailed with all the prologues.”
Gonedaft frowned. “Nonetheless…”
“You still could,” Thorn offered, with the hasty eagerness of one who sees his most powerful dragon-smiting weapon floating out the door in a haze of alcohol and disappointment. “It’s a quest, right? With casualties. A little dragon fodder never hurts.”
Gonedaft hesitated, gravely and thoughtfully.
“I’ll even throw in the funeral expenses.”
Gonedaft clinked a grimy mug against his. “It’s a deal. Tell me, how do you feel about the British?”
Prologue the Second, Part Two: More Bumble, More Fumble
In a hole in the ground, there was a basement. Above that was a hole, or rather another hole. And the hole thing–er, whole thing–oh sod it all–” Bumble crossed out what he had been writing (and unconsciously dictating to himself loud enough to set off the neighbor’s cats) and replaced it with “I live in a hole.” He considered the next, nodded and smiled proudly. An entire sentence written. Upon further deep thought, he sharpened his pen and wrote below it, dictating all the while, “Here’s what a Halfling Hole looks like.”
“Uncle Bumble? I actually know what a Halfling hole…”
“Oh. I thought you’d left.”
“Bathroom.”
“Right.”
“So you’re writing this for me? I mean, I really know about the care and feeding of your standard halfling–”
“Get out! Wait, is everything ready for my eleventy-hundredth birthday party? Crusts cut off? Wraps wrapped? Soufflés still poofed? Metal detectors on? Car gassed up?”
“Are you going somewhere?”
“No.” Bumble glanced involuntarily from his writing desk to the pile of five stuffed suitcases. “Not at all. Why?”
“No reason.” Since Fumble was hardly the sharpest tool in the shed, and indeed, was near the bottom of the entire tool emporium in that respect, he wandered off and into another trilogy. Without his irritating nephew about, Bumble continued to ramble, only occasionally remembering to write his narrative down.
In this very hole, a halfling lived, or rather, dwelt, for this was Long Ago in Days of Yore. The halflings were one of many species in Renfair Earth, so called because everyone wore Middle Ages or Renaissance Fair garb at all times. “Middle Ages Earth” just lacked something in style somehow. It was a time and place where everyone relied on the laws of magic, not science…rather like Kansas.
His ancestors had named the hole Pápropläctik, or in the common language, Grocery Bag, so named for it lay in a cul-de-sac that resembled one of a halfling’s favorite containers. It was located in Halflingtonfordshire, which would someday be Britain, or at least its younger cousin New Zealand, thus accounting for the tea and scones halflings seemed to eat with every meal.
Halflings are merry folk, fond of the “pull my finger” joke, and whoopee cushions, and other subtle and inventive bits of humor. They enjoy puns and use them to great effectiveness. They often adorn themselves with waistcoats, sashes, little straw hats with ribbons, and other affronts to good taste, as they’ve been doing for close to an age now. In fact, they are descended from a series of improper relations between squirrels and gnomes, and spend their days baking cream-filled cookies in treehouse factories, though they prefer to live in the sides of hills, at least until the woodchopping for their ovens creates serious erosion.
They enjoy eating, and prefer twelve big meals a day when they can get them, to say nothing of crisps and popcorn in front of the television. They are quite fond of kippers, steak and kidney pie, mushy peas, lumpy gravy, and hunks of turnip, swede, and carrot in everything. As apparent by their cuisine, they have difficulty moving quickly, particularly after second breakfast or third lunch. They have many hobbies, from food preparation to eating to drinking, though they are no rivals with dwarves for the last of these. Under duress, they will wash dishes, though this is reserved as a punishment for the slow-witted among them, who have managed to be last out the door.
In the old tongue, they are known as Léprékanns, in Old Norse as the Münchken or on occasion Lilliputians. In England, they are the small folk (though political correctness makes this term a hazard), in Indonesia they are known as H. floresiensis, and for those avoiding copyright entanglements, they are known simply as Halflings.
Bumble was in fact something beyond this:
Since his mother was part fairy, and fairies are half angel, half demon, Bumble was actually not a halfling but a quarterling. This meant he was banned from the country club and some of the snootier halflings would blow their noses as they passed him on the street. Nonetheless, he considered himself a refined country gentleman and continued to spread this opinion around. Bumble was a quiet, retiring sort of halfling, content to spend his days searching elfBay for the latest in home entertainment systems and bootleg DVDs, from the time he was in diapers to the time he stopped wearing them around age fifty.
And it is there our story begins, back in the days of yore when Bumble was played by an actor who wasn’t a really old guy, for no more prologues were available for the moment.
A Preposterous Portfolio of Parodies: Free Selections from Spoofs of The Hobbit, Game of Thrones, Harry Potter, Star Trek and More Page 2
