The Legend of Dickendoof. A Fantasy Novel. Chapter Four. by Tim Torkildson.

 

                                          Arthur Pennyroyal

Chapter Four.  Cold Beans.

Now that the blue goblins are taken care of, we turn back to the war on the wizards.

Heavily persecuted, they curiously neglected to use their magic to defend themselves. Instead they hired a hack named Turdleson to write soliloquies for them to perform on market days in all the villages of Dickendoof. Here is a sample, culled from a pair of ancient vellum long johns:

(Enter Woodruff, stage left, a bedraggled wizard of immeasurable years, stirring an oversized cauldron.)

Ah, good folk, you’ve stumbled upon me in my sanctum of culinary concoctions, my haven of heated repasts, my - ahem - kitchen. I, Woodruff the Wizard, do hereby bear witness to the joy and frustrations of magical cookery. You see, the creation of a delectable meal is an art akin to the casting of spells. After all, they say the quickest way to someone’s heart is through their stomach, and who am I to challenge this age-old wisdom?

It's wonderfully easy, you see. With a pinch of Fire Salamander's spice, the stove alights without the cumbersome task of lighting a match. The enchantment of my cauldron gives it the dexterity of a Parisian sous-chef, chopping, stirring, tasting—though I do worry it might develop a superiority complex.

A sprinkling of pixie sugar, and any dish sweetens just to the taster's liking. Yet, never, and I mean never, add any troll's vinegar, unless you fancy your stew stomping around, grumbling and demanding a toll.

But the charm, the pièce de résistance, lies in the mustard seeds of Howzaland. More elusive than a moonbeam's whisper, rarer than a dragon's hiccups. They possess a flavor so distinct, so profound, it would make a basilisk weep.

Gaining those precious seeds requires a trip through the floating meadows of Uplandia, down the rapids of Runamuck River, and past the ever-irritable moss grump of Grendle's Glen. Many a young wizard has embarked upon the quest, only to return with frayed nerves, singed robes, and worst of all, the wrong type of seeds. Damnable Dijon! The horror!

(He clasps his chest dramatically, seemingly reliving a traumatic memory.)

Indeed, the journey is perilous, as dangerous as a harpy's hair salon or a gorgon's optometry appointment. But, oh, the reward! That singular pop of flavour, the way it melds with the dragon egg yolk, or dances with the unicorn cream, is worth every ghoul-infested swamp I’ve had to cross.

And yet, despite my culinary escapades, what do folks envision when they think of wizards? Hunched figures of nefarious intentions, brewing malevolent spells in obsidian towers, cackling to the moon's shadow. Sigh...

All I've ever cackled at is a particularly cheeky manticore who had the nerve to suggest he could out-cook me. The gall! And my most devious plot? Sneaking an extra helping of celestial scones before the cauldron notices.

Sure, I've had my share of explosions, of soufflés taking flight, and pies developing a taste for human, but hey, every artist has their off days. But, does society see the delicate symphony of flavors I orchestrate? The cosmic ballet of textures I choreograph? No, they see only the misfired spells and the slightly singed eyebrows. How deeply unfair!

The truth, my dear audience, is far less exciting than the tales spun. I, like many of my wand-wielding compatriots, merely wish to be left alone with our spice jars and spatulas. We are simple souls, treading the delicate balance of gastronomic grandeur, one enchanted pot and pan at a time.

I suppose there's nothing for it but to embrace the role. Woodruff, the culinary conjurer, the

 gastronomic mage, the wizard of the...oh, blast it, my doughnuts are levitating again!

(Exit Woodruff, stage right, chasing a rogue doughnut.)

*******************************************************************************

At this point in our narrative we’ve decided the reader should have some more detailed historical background. After all, there’s not much use in getting you all het up about battles and enchantments without a firm grounding in the nuts and bolts of everyday life during this ancient epoch. So we wrote the following to help keep things in perspective. And if you think it dull and pedantic, we can only say – “Gey veyk deyn kop!”

Title: The Unique History of Vellum Long Johns: Stage Plays and Liver Pill Advertisements

Vellum Long Johns, with their distinctive history, have had a pivotal role in some intriguingly specific facets of our cultural past. This essay explores the evolution of these unique garments, with an emphasis on their use in recording stage plays and liver pill advertisements.

Originating in the Middle Ages, vellum, a fine parchment made from calfskin, was often used for recording important documents due to its durability. At some point, an enterprising individual had the innovative idea of using this material to create a type of thermal underwear known as Long Johns. This oddity of history then gained a surprising secondary use as a medium for communication, particularly in advertising and stage plays.

The use of Vellum Long Johns in stage plays primarily came about as a result of their inherent properties. Vellum's hardy nature lent itself well to the rough and tumble world of the theater, where costumes underwent regular abuse from constant use. Actors found that they could endure the physical rigors of performing while wearing Vellum Long Johns. Simultaneously, the bright surface of the vellum provided an excellent backdrop for noting down lines, stage directions, and other necessary play-related information.

As these garments were frequently worn during rehearsals, they naturally became a convenient space for jotting down notes. Over time, these notes transformed from being mere scribbles into comprehensive recordings of the play, including dialogue, stage directions, and even elements of stage design. The use of these garments as a "walking script" allowed actors and stagehands to have immediate access to the play's essential details without needing additional materials.

But why did Vellum Long Johns also become associated with liver pill advertisements? The answer lies in the vibrant history of early advertising. With newspapers and magazines being the primary mediums for print advertising in the 19th and early 20th centuries, ad space was often costly. It led businesses to seek alternative, cheaper means of promoting their products. Enter the Vellum Long Johns.

Liver pills, popular health supplements of the time, were often marketed using innovative and unconventional methods due to limited advertising budgets. The use of Vellum Long Johns as a walking billboard was an ingenious solution. Liver pill manufacturers would pay actors to wear these garments adorned with their advertisements. This method ensured the constant presence of their product in the public eye and provided a unique way for the actors to supplement their often meager incomes.

The intriguing marriage between Vellum Long Johns, stage plays, and liver pill advertisements marked an interesting point in our cultural history. It demonstrated the adaptability of simple materials like vellum, used in ways far beyond their original intention. While the practice may seem outlandish by today's standards, it provides a valuable lens through which we can examine our past.

In conclusion, the use of Vellum Long Johns in recording stage plays and liver pill advertisements is a testament to human ingenuity and the lengths to which people would go to overcome challenges. The sturdy, adaptable vellum was repurposed from merely protecting its wearers against the cold to becoming an essential tool in the world of theater and a unique medium for advertising. The historical journey of Vellum Long Johns is a fascinating example of how creativity can push the limits of what is possible with simple materials, leading to unexpected but highly effective solutions.

************************************************************************************

Weren’t there any witches to worry about back then in Dickendoof?

There were!

In the time of King Donald Trunk, the peculiar realm of Dickendoof bristled with an ethereal charm, a charm meticulously woven by the seductive allure of witches. These enchantresses, shrouded in an aurora of mystery and panache, twirled their magic like the loom of destiny, entwining the court and the king in an intoxicating dance of sorcery and seduction.

King Donald Trunk, a robust, ruddy-faced monarch with a sparkle in his eye that mirrored the unabashed glint of the mischievous stars overhead, held a bizarre fascination for these elusive dames. They were his soft obsession, his dangerous liaisons in a kingdom of orthodoxy and order. His throne, while a symbol of brute power, was but a vantage point from which he could indulge in his thrilling dalliances with the witchy wenches, their allure impossible to resist.

These witches, draped in midnight black gowns adorned with silver moonstones and threaded enchantments, glittered like the cosmos themselves under the dappled palace light. Their hair, a wild cascade of raven waves, flowed freely, reflecting the rebellious spirit that they personified. Beneath their alabaster brows sparkled eyes as profound as the deepest ocean trenches, revealing a wisdom beyond the ages and a cunning that could mesmerize the staunchest hearts.

Each had an allure distinctly her own. Some carried a tune that could charm the birds from the trees; others painted with colors borrowed from sunsets and dreams. Some concocted potions that would cast an iron man into a delicate stupor; others whispered prophecies that could make a brave knight shudder. Yet, they all shared a characteristic magnetism, an otherworldly beauty that ensnared the senses and held them hostage.

As King Trunk reveled in this world of arcane arts, somewhere in the bowels of the sprawling castle, the Queen found solace in the royal pantry, an otherwise mundane chamber, which under her royal presence transformed into a haven of solitariness. Within these cold stone walls, she savored her isolation, a stark contrast to the labyrinth of royal obligations outside. Her solitary companions were jars of preserved summer fruits, sacks of grain, wheels of hard cheese, and a pot of cold beans.

A stately woman, with a regal poise that defied her humble surroundings, the queen embraced the rustic simplicity of her cold beans. She would sit for hours, the moonlight filtering through the narrow window to cast an ethereal glow on her velvet gown. A silver spoon would rhythmically clink against the porcelain bowl as she savored each morsel, the rich, earthy flavor a poignant reminder of the country's heartlands.

The king's dalliances and the queen's retreat were an open secret in the palace, a hushed tale that added another thread to the kingdom's vibrant tapestry. It was a spectacle of the king's passions and the queen's resignation, a balance of eccentricity and quiet resilience that shaped the character of the realm of Dickendoof.

And so it went, the curious dance of King Trunk and his witchy wenches, and the quiet defiance of a queen in her pantry. The kingdom of Dickendoof, under the spell of its unconventional rulers, thrived in this peculiar balance. For all its whimsicality, this was a realm that embraced its idiosyncrasies, a place where witches spun their enchantments under starry skies, a king reveled in the thrill of the forbidden, and a queen found solace in the comfort of her beans. In its unique way, Dickendoof was a testament to the beauty of embracing the unconventional, the magic that unfurls when one dares to wander off the beaten path.

Underlip the Scribe records a rollicking little ditty that made the round of taverns at the time, alluding to the King’s infatuation with hexens:

There once was a king of great might,

In robes of velvet and jewels so bright.

Yet, by his own decree, he was made a fool,

By a wily witch who thought him a tool.

Said the witch with a wink and a lopsided grin,

"Your Majesty, shall we let the games begin?"

With spells and potions, she started her trick,

Her laughter echoed, her voice thick.

She conjured an image of a damsel fair,

And the king, he was caught in her snare.

He danced and he pranced, his heart aflame,

Unaware it was all a deceptive game.

The witch laughed aloud as he swooned and crooned,

Serenading a maiden as full as the moon.

He praised her beauty, her eyes so blue,

Unaware it was the witch's brew.

Oh, how the court roared with laughter,

The echo ringing in the rafters.

The king, in his folly, continued his pursuit,

Blind to the witch and her cunning fruit.

So, remember this tale of royal jest,

When a king was made to look less than best.

A reminder to all, both near and far,

Not everything is as it appears, no matter who you are.

The Legend of Dickendoof. A Fantasy Novel. Chapter Three. by Tim Torkildson

 

                                             Arthur Pennyroyal

Chapter Three.  The Battle of Chicken Flicken.

The Dickendoofian calendar (Old Style) records that in the year 1333 a thunderous battle took place between the blue goblins, led by their chief Snoddle, and the knights of the card table, led by Sir Earwig. Hundreds of goblins and hundreds of knights gathered in the valley of Chicken Flicken to fight it out. Once again we turn to Underlip the Scribe for a description of the action:

The first beams of dawn spilled over the hill, an ironic harbinger of the unfolding chaos. Chief Snoddle, leading the fearsome Blue Goblins, stood at the head of his formidable force, sneering at the shimmering line of knights across the battlefield. Opposite him, beneath the fluttering banner of the Card Table, was Sir Earwig, leader of the Knights, with an expression as steadfast as the armor encasing him. The field in between lay barren, trembling in anticipation.

"Dawn be the hour," intoned Sir Earwig, raising his sword high to catch the morning sun. "The time when Goodness shall defy the specters of the Night! For this battle, my Knights, is not just for us, but for those who sleep peacefully in their beds, trusting our strength to keep the Night at bay."

A defiant cry rose from the armored ranks, their swords and shields glinting with reflected courage. It was a sight that could kindle hope in the hearts of the most pessimistic.

Across the field, the goblin chief Snoddle, bared his sharp teeth in a snarling grin, "Yer shiny armor don't scare us, Earwig! Let's see if yer soft insides match yer hard outsides!"

Goblin laughter filled the air, an abrasive sound that was discordant to the harmonious melody of the morning. Yet, this exchange of words only seemed to tighten the strings of tension pulling at the battlefield.

Then, without warning, it snapped. The Blue Goblins hurtled forward, a torrent of fury. The Knights of the Card Table met them halfway, their swords slicing through the air with deadly precision.

"Stand strong, Knights!" Sir Earwig's voice rang above the turmoil. "Remember our vow! Let our hearts beat for the defenseless, our swords clash for the helpless!"

Chief Snoddle, wielding a wickedly curved sword, sneered in response. "Pretty words, Earwig. Our hearts beat for power, our swords clash for victory! Today, we end yer pointless chirping!"

A raging maelstrom of blue goblins and silver knights enveloped the field. Swords met with furious crashes, the impact reverberating down the arms of the combatants. The Knights fought with an iron discipline, their movements precise, while the goblins attacked with a wild and ruthless energy, a contrast as stark as the differing sun and moon.

Yet, despite the fierceness of the clash, it was clear that both leaders held the same unwavering conviction - this battle was a crucible, one that would define the fate of their worlds. For Sir Earwig and his Knights, it was a fight for justice and protection of the weak. For Snoddle and his Blue Goblins, it was a bold push for power, an attempt to destabilize the status quo. No matter the motive, this day marked a pivotal moment in their history, one that would reverberate through the ages.

As the first day of battle raged on, these opposing forces and their steadfast leaders remained locked in a violent dance, their conflicting ideals forming the core of this unforgettable tableau. It was a vibrant testament to the complexities of warfare and leadership, a spectacle as striking as it was terrifying.

**************************************************************************

Underlip continues his narrative for the second day of battle:

Sunlight, piercing the veiled dawn, disclosed the battered battle-field. Torn earth bore testament to the bloody conflict between the blue goblins and the valiant knights of the card table. Fires still smoldered on the charred edges of the plains, silent witnesses to yesterday's carnage.

Pandemonium erupted as the horn of combat sounded. Blue goblins, like raging waves, surged forth. Armored in wickedness, their lust for destruction glinted in their beady eyes. At their head, the monstrous figure of Snoddle, their chief, towered over his comrades, his brutish form instilling dread in the hearts of his foes.

From the opposite flank, the knights of the card table, arrayed in gleaming armor, charged in unison. The ground thundered beneath their warhorses' hooves, and their banners, emblazoned with the image of their sacred table, fluttered courageously against the crimson sky.

Amidst the roar of the battle, Snoddle met his match. Sir Galahard, a knight-captain, lunged at him with a sharpened lance. With an earth-shattering thud, the lance found its mark, tearing through the goblin chief’s thick hide. Snoddle roared, not in defeat, but a defiant bellow that echoed across the battlefield, chilling the blood of the bravest knights.

Snoddle fell, wounded gravely. As his horde rallied around him, his rumbling voice rose above the cacophony. He spoke, a lament of his bloody life, "Always, I've played the beast. I sowed seeds of hatred, wrought chaos and fed on destruction. It was a role thrust upon me, one I accepted for survival.”

He coughed, blood speckling his lips, his gaze faraway, “Yet, deep in the cavernous recesses of my soul, I harbored dreams. Dreams of peace, of gentleness, so at odds with my monstrous facade. I yearned for the simple joys, the art of plucking daisies in sun-kissed fields, the serenity it brought me.”

His eyes glazed, “And the nymphs, the ethereal nymphs of the woods. I longed to caress their glowing forms, to make love under the moonlight, amidst whispers of leaves and the soft lullaby of the nightingale. To be one with nature, to savor its beauty, its love. Yet, here I lay, a creature born of darkness, a being of destruction."

Tears, as soft as the morning dew, glistened in Snoddle's eyes. "Each day, a struggle, a battle not against knights but against my own nature. Yearning for peace, yet causing chaos. Dreaming of love, yet sowing hatred. In the grand orchestra of life, I played the villain's tune. But I ask, can a monster dream of love? Can he long for peace? Can he, too, find redemption?"

With a sigh, he finished, “Is it so wrong, then, to yearn for something more than what I am? To seek not just survival, but a life of peace and love? Yet here I am, a creature of war, longing for a world that can never be mine."

The battlefield fell silent, his words resonating in the hearts of both goblins and knights. And as Snoddle's life flickered out under the cold gaze of the indifferent dawn, a question hung heavily in the air - Can a monster dream?

The battle would resume, but with a seed of doubt sown, a questioning glance exchanged between foes. Snodd

Snoddle’s monologue, a reflection of his soul’s lament, served as a haunting reminder of the duality of beings, even those perceived as monstrous.

***************************************************

There is some doubt that Underlip the Scribe ever actually witnessed this heroic three day battle. Most modern authorities (including myself, Arthur Pennyroyal) hold to the theory that Underlip simply interviewed survivors of the battle years later and then cobbled together his stirring narrative. On the other hand, there is some evidence that the scribe acted as a page to Sir Earwig during the fracas. The truth probably lies somewhere sleeping.

Underlip the Scribe finishes his war story thus:

The early morning fog hung heavily over the undulating fields of Chicken Flickin, a natural amphitheater that echoed with the grim symphony of war. It was there that Sir Earwig and his vaunted Knights of the Card Table clashed victorious swords with the ominous horde of Blue Goblins.

On the third day of battle, Sir Earwig, a stout figure with a chin hidden beneath a scruffy beard of iron gray, sat atop his noble steed and surveyed the field. His eyes, as keen as a falcon's, scanned the terrain, reading it like an open book, deciphering the hidden tales written by boot and hoof, by fallen soldiers and discarded weapons.

On the front lines, knights Grimsby and Butterworth, grizzled veterans both, leaned on their shields, their weary legs begging for respite. Grimsby, the taller of the two, grimaced as he bit into a hardtack biscuit, crumbs raining onto his already filth-stained tunic.

"Butterworth," he began, his words muffled by his poor excuse for a meal, "why is it that every time I bite into this blasted biscuit, I swear I'm chewing on gravel?"

"Mayhaps it's the cook's way of ensuring we're grinding our teeth as much as our swords," Butterworth retorted with a wry grin. "Or perhaps it's Sir Earwig's brilliant strategy to arm us with indigestible rations so we might use them as projectiles in desperate times."

Grimsby chuckled, a weary but genuine sound. "Perhaps," he agreed, sending another spray of crumbs flying. "And isn't it strange that the only orders we get from the top are to 'Hold the line'?"

"Just once," Butterworth sighed, casting his gaze skywards as if expecting to see divine intervention, "I'd like a bit more... I don’t know, originality?"

"Strategy would be a nice start," Grimsby added, his voice heavy with resigned humor.

Meanwhile, back at the command post, Sir Earwig was developing just that. The humble card table from which their knightly order took its name was strewn with a chaotic scattering of parchment, quills, and pewter goblets. Sir Earwig studied the scattered parchments, his eyes narrowing as a plan began to take shape.

The morning sun was reaching its zenith when Sir Earwig’s plan was unfurled. With a rallying cry, he charged into the fray, his knights following behind him, their swords gleaming in the sunlight. Sir Earwig himself swung his great sword, cleaving goblins left and right, his blows as unforgiving as his strategy.

The Blue Goblins, despite their savage ferocity, were no match for the cunning of Sir Earwig and his Knights. The battlefield gradually turned into a scene of chaos and defeat for the goblins. They had lost their chief, Snoddle, and were now uncertain of what to do. Their once-mighty force lay decimated, their banners fallen and trodden into the blood-soaked earth.

As night fell, the triumphant Knights of the Card Table stood victorious on the battlefield. Grimsby and Butterworth, tired but triumphant, leaned against a felled oak, watching as the remnants of the Blue Goblins retreated into the dusky horizon.

"Food's still bad, Grimsby," Butterworth remarked, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"But the strategy, Butterworth, the strategy was a feast," Grimsby replied, returning the smile as he took another bite of his unyielding biscuit.

The astute reader will wonder how so few dead dragons could have produced so many blue goblins to be overcome and slain. The answer is that one dragon carcass, according to the eminent reptile authority Reedrobber, was capable of producing an endless supply of blue goblins as it decayed. Unless the unsavory mess was doused with sack – and no one in their right mind in Dickendoof would waste good wine on a dead dragon. Even if it meant being plagued by blue goblins.  After all, drinking enough sack often brought on a regiment of pink elephants – so what’s the difference?

As the old drinking song ‘Green Cheeks’ has it:

In a tavern, 'neath the eaves, where merry folk repine,

There's naught as sweet, on lips to greet, as blessed, bawdy wine.

With a lusty leer and a rousing cheer, we pass the jug divine,

For a Chasers tale is naught but frail, without a splash of vine.

Oh, in goblets deep, the secrets keep of life’s own honeyed line,

We drink our fill of life's sweet swill, in the bosom of the wine.

Through the stained glass light, in the heart of night, we raise our cups on high,

With a wink and grin, we invite sin, 'neath the star-lit sky.

Red or white, in day or night, each draught a lovers' tryst,

In the cups of vine, we intertwine, lost in the vintner's mist.

Oh, with goblets brimmed, and senses dimmed, we chase the divine,

We raise a toast to our gracious host, the generous, sacred wine.

Our tongues do tease with tales of these, of knights and maidens fair,

With each sip we sup, from the brimming cup, we cast away our care.

On velvet chairs, and down the stairs, the laughter sweetly rings,

With the clink of glass, we watch time pass, and the joy that drinking brings.

Oh, in the warmth of wine, the world is fine, its troubles out of line,

So here we'll stay, till break of day, in the arms of the divine wine.

The minstrel's song, it lures along, the damsel and the swain,

In the tavern's glow, the wine does flow, like sweet, ambrosial rain.

In ruby light of candles bright, a dance of shadows play,

While the stories spun 'neath the setting sun, are softened by the gray.

Oh, the tales unwind, as we're inclined, in the company of wine,

Let the world go by, under the sky, while we with the grapevine dine.

We feast and frolic, with jests symbolic, in the wine's intoxicating cheer,

The night, it wanes, but joy remains, as we hold each other near.

In the tavern's heart, we play our part, in life's sweet, spinning reel,

With the wine's embrace, we quicken pace, on the wheel's merry keel.

Oh, through the glass, let hours pass, for we've found our lifeline,

In this tipsy trance, we find romance, in the whispering sweet wine.

So let us raise, in hearty praise, a toast to the grape's delight,

To the joy and mirth, on this blessed earth, in the soft and silken night.

With every cheer, we hold dear, the pleasure that does shine,

In the tavern's light, with hearts alight, we sing the praise of wine.

Oh, till dawn's first light, in the tavern's night, we'll sing of the wine so fine,

In our rapture, we're captured, by the sweet enchantment of the wine.

The Legend of DickenDoof. A Fantasy Novel. Chapter Two. by Tim Torkildson.

 

 

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.

*************************************************************

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.)

*********************************************************************

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.