The Knight's Tale
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_Tis spoken by the runagates and laggards round the fire, that in the small hours of the night strode noble Sir Mariston Thel to the south gate of Norwick, and he didst hail and greet the Doughty Citizenry there with his name and mission, as befitteth a proud knight.
Woe! for the uncouth gate-wards and ad-venturers did question and seek to detain good Sir Mariston, with many impertinent questions! Churlishly they asked, "Why are you only 4 feet tall?" and "Why won't you take your helm off?" Twas of course beneath Sir Mariston Thel's dignity to reply to such rude and saucy speech.
As he strode on, intent on his noble mission, the knaves did seek to bar his path. So vexed was good Sir Mariston that he uttered an oath in the goblin tongue, as any goodly knight would in time of stress. Then he turned and scarpered.
But alas! alackaday, the varlets didst hound noble Sir Mariston like… hounds. At bay, he turned and faught most fightily. Valiantly he stood alone against many, and he callethed hearily upon Torp. Upon Torp did he call, and the knaves feared his wrath, for his strokes with his two poisoned assassination swords were most dolorous and valiant. Blades did he clash with the ruffian Z, and the vagabond Dietrick, and the runagate Thorn, and divers others. Outnumbered, yet steadfast in his faith, righteous in his fury! Tis a most inspiring sight.
Woe! They hath borne him down! O, many a maiden shall weep and a many a holy priest shall light a mourning candle, for brave Sir Mariston hath fallen, his 3.8 foot frame sprawling upon the ground. No more shall he stride out of the greenwood, singing a merry goblin assassin's drinking song, to gladden the hearts of the faithful. No more shall he fight evil in the name of Torp, or Turm, or Tgr, or any other badly pronounethed god. A mighty champion hath perished. A grievious tale indeed._
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Upon hearing the tale Mariston chuckles to himself and shakes his head
“They doth say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery….”
