Chapter Two. The Taste of Mustard.
Killing off the dragons in Dickendoof was one thing. Dealing with the aftermath was another.
Once again our gabby friend, Underlip the Scribe, has something to say about the matter. And I quote:
A Dramatic Transformation: From Dragon Carcass to Blue Goblin and its Peculiar Mustard Weakness
A slain dragon carcass does not simply decompose like other mortal remains. Instead, it undergoes an elaborate metamorphosis, culminating in a reincarnation as an eccentric, horrid blue goblin with peculiar habits and an unusual weakness.A keen observer may first notice a spectral blue aura shrouding the carcass, a harbinger of the bizarre transformation to follow. Over time, the once majestic dragon form dissipates, replaced by a grotesque goblin creature, imbued with a distinctive, captivating azure hue.
This new entity is known to exhibit unique behaviors, notably nocturnal goat riding, that diverge significantly from conventional goblin norms. Domesticated goats, often the unwitting vessels for this peculiar goblin transportation, become the spectacle of nightly escapades. The goblin, filled with a boundless, impish energy, rides these goats around communities under the veil of night. It then deliberately produces cacophonous sounds that keep the local populace perpetually awake. This noise, ranging from high-pitched cackling to disturbing renditions of traditional goblin songs, resonates through the dark, rendering sleep impossible.
While the origins of the transformation from a dragon carcass to this audacious creature remain largely a mystery, the solution to mitigating its annoyance lies in an unexpected, mundane substance - mustard. Specifically, applying mustard on the goblin's pink, curly tail negates its nocturnal disturbances, as referenced by folklore and dramatic literature.
Astonishingly, the otherwise formidable goblin exhibits a distinct vulnerability to mustard. This condiment, when applied to the creature's piggy tail, works as an inhibitory agent, neutralizing its unruly behavior. The theory posits that mustard's pungent scent and taste possibly trigger a primal instinct within the goblin, compelling it to retreat in avoidance and thus ceasing its boisterous activities.
However, the process of applying mustard to a goblin's tail is no small task. It demands precision, bravery, and a deep understanding of goblin behavior. It involves tracking the creature's nightly jaunts, silently approaching it, and administering the mustard without alerting it. Once achieved, the tranquility stolen by the blue goblin is promptly restored, signifying the importance of mustard as a tool of peace against this night-time menace.
In conclusion, the transformation of a dragon carcass into a blue goblin and its subsequent mustard-induced pacification is a testament to the idiosyncrasies of mythical creatures and the solutions humanity has devised to coexist with them. It underlines the intricate dance between the fantastical and the mundane, highlighting that even in the face of the most eccentric disruptions, often, a simple, unassuming solution lies in wait.
The death throes of a goblin
(Not for the faint of stomach.)
As the radiant morning sun painted the ethereal skies with hues of gold and crimson, an unsuspecting blue goblin frolicked through the enchanted meadow. Its diminutive frame, adorned with vibrant cerulean skin, reveled in a world of whimsy and mischief. Little did the mischievous creature know that a macabre fate awaited its dainty existence. With a malevolent glimmer in the eyes of its executioner, a vile hand dipped a brush into a pot of pungent mustard, its potent aroma pervading the air with a sinister intent.
As the ominous hand, guided by a wicked purpose, approached the goblin's innocent pink piggy tails, the vibrant strands quivered in unison. In their innocence, they knew not of the impending torment that awaited them. The nefarious brush, dripping with mustard's viscous wrath, descended upon the delicate tresses with a cruel determination, smearing the golden condiment upon the innocent curls. The goblin's joyful squeals of delight turned into agonizing shrieks of despair as the burning embrace of mustard's acidic torment enveloped each strand.
The goblin's once-bright eyes, brimming with mischief and wonder, now reflected the depths of anguish and despair. Its petite frame writhed in agony, contorting like a marionette in the throes of a malevolent puppeteer's whims. The tormented creature's sapphire skin turned sickly pale, the vibrant hues fading into a deathly pallor. Its dainty hands reached towards the cursed piggy tails, their touch now fraught with a searing pain that coursed through every fiber of its being.
With each passing moment, the mustard's caustic essence unleashed its cruel symphony of suffering upon the goblin's once-joyful existence. The blue creature's breath became labored, rasping through constricted passages as if whispering its final lament. The enchanting meadow bore witness to this dark spectacle, the very flowers and blades of grass recoiling in silent horror at the grotesque tableau unfolding before them.
No solace was found for the tortured goblin, for even the wind seemed to carry the agonizing wails of its plight across the land. A cursed rhapsody of despair echoed through the gnarled trees, their twisted branches embracing the goblin's torment as if they were sinister arms of the underworld itself. Nature itself mourned the tragic fate befalling the once-joyful creature, the skies weeping as if shedding tears of liquid sorrow.
As the final vestiges of life ebbed from the blue goblin's tortured form, its delicate frame collapsed upon the hallowed ground. The enchanted meadow fell into an eerie silence, haunted by the memory of the grisly demise. The mustard-stained piggy tails, now lifeless and limp, served as a grim reminder of the goblin's harrowing journey into the abyss. In this twisted dance of life and death, the meadow mourned, forever scarred by the cruel tapestry of mustard's merciless grip.
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Donald Trunk, the tyrannical king of Dickendoof during the early part of the thirteenth century, apparently cared nothing for his subject’s safety or welfare when it came to the sudden emergence of blue goblins once the dragons were being slain. A curious old parchment document, frayed and moth-eaten, from that time period records a dialogue between Fardel the peasant and Sir Earwig, a sympathetic knight, on the subject. It was apparently written by one of the King’s ubiquitous spies as he overheard it:
FARDEL: Good day, Sir Earwig. Word on the winds be that the blue goblins are at it again.
SIR EARWIG: Hail, Fardel. Indeed, those confounded beasts. Their maddening noises torment our nights.
FARDEL: Squeals, howls, and clangs, they are. None can get a wink o' sleep! What say ye of King Trunk? He sits in his gilded castle, all peace and quiet, doesn't he?
SIR EARWIG: Verily. His Highness, ensconced within the thick stone walls of the palace, is no doubt resting peacefully. It seems emergencies are of no concern to him.
FARDEL: I remember the great flood, Sir Knight. We peasants were left to fend for ourselves, while King Trunk feasted on pastries and wines.
SIR EARWIG: Indeed, I recall. His inaction was disheartening. A true king should safeguard his people, not indulge in luxuries while his subjects suffer.
FARDEL: Is it not the duty of the king to protect his people? To quiet the goblins? To care for us in times of need?
SIR EARWIG: That is, indeed, the principle of noblesse oblige, Fardel. But our king appears to lack such values.
FARDEL: Well, if the king cannot be bothered to come down from his high horse, perhaps it's time we peasants did something about it.
SIR EARWIG: Oh? And what do you propose?
FARDEL: Well, my old mum used to say, when royalty becomes a bother, shove 'em in a barrel and throw 'em down a well!
SIR EARWIG: (Laughs) A creative, albeit violent, suggestion. I can't say it lacks merit, though. At the very least, they'd know what it's like to be discomforted.
FARDEL: Exactly! A little scare might make 'em see sense. Mayhap they'll think twice 'fore leaving us to fend off blue goblins alone.
SIR EARWIG: Fardel, you may have the simple garb of a peasant, but you carry the wisdom of a sage. King Trunk could indeed learn from this experience.
FARDEL: So, you agree, then?
SIR EARWIG: (Chuckles) I must say, as a knight, I ought to defend the crown. But as a man of the people, I see the merit in your words. Perhaps...perhaps royalty should taste the hardships they oft ignore.
FARDEL: It would do 'em good, wouldn't it, Sir Knight?
SIR EARWIG: Indeed, Fardel. The throne has always been too comfortable for most. Perhaps it's time to let them taste the water of the well.
FARDEL: I'll drink to that, Sir Earwig. I'll drink to that!
(They clink their mugs together in agreement, a smile on both of their faces, their laughter echoing in the night.)
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In the event, King Donald Trunk lived a long and peaceful and prosperous life. He’ll figure more largely in this narrative later on. Once we have disposed of the vexing problems facing both peasants and their knight landlords back in those ancient, violent days.
As the poet Schlitzer wrote at the time:
Poesies are red.
Aphids draw near.
They fall in the soup
And into your beer.
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