Written By: Susan Marcus
A mild satire inspired by their list of fantasy novel tropes and clichés
“And just what qualifies you?” the Priest of the Pram gods asked.
“We’re short, for one thing,” the half-meter tall, dumpling-shaped man replied.
“Not so little. I’ve seen smaller.”
“Small enough to be called Little People and we come from a land that’s like medieval England.”
“Could help. What else you got?”
“We have about five wins against a few corrupt wizards and…”
“Just five?”
“And an evil tyrant in an extremely difficult to reach kingdom, beyond the Pramidian Ocean and past the range of Dire Woe Mountains.”
“So?”
“Who just happened to be my father.”
“You battled your own father?”
“Not exactly. He died just as we stormed his castle’s keep.”
“Stormed?”
“Well, snuck into.”
“You and who else?”
“My twin—I met her for the first time in the village nestled beneath the castle walls.”
“Nestled beneath?”
“That’s how we talk.”
“Anyone else?”
“A knight on his last quest for the perfect…”
Impatient, the Priest of Pram interrupted again. “Your adventures lack a certain something.”
“Oh, sorry, wait. I nearly forgot her (how could I do that?): Shana of the East, the clever former royal servant who stole the throne of Mordred II of the Wolds and Bournes, a misguided sorcerer if there ever was one, who died from his own poison brew. She led us.”
The Priest of Pram yawned, shook his head, and rolled his eyes as he looked at his chief acolyte. The minion shrugged and took a step toward the little man, but before he could grab his elaborate lacy collar, the diminutive fellow said, “Did I mention the dragon?”
“No-o-o,” replied the priest, dismissing his acolyte with a wave of his bejeweled hand. “Tell me more.”
The supplicant cleared his throat: “Ah-hem. No sooner had we crossed the drawbridge when a wave of terrific heat knocked us into the moat. The beasts that swam in those fetid waters would have eaten us alive, had the princess, my older sister, then unknown to me, not drained the moat, thus extinguishing the beasts and allowing us to climb out.”
“But what of the dragon?”
“Ah, yes, the dragon, all sparkling blue and simmering, had claimed the princess as her rider. When the princess—I knew her as Clothilde—revealed her kinship to me and my twin sister, the dragon extinguished her fire and cleaned the moat muck off us with her forked tongue, a rather strange and disturbing experience.”
“And then?”
“And then, we took the castle, joined a grand celebration and were allowed to serve the princess Clothilde from then on.”
“Why are you here? Your situation with Princess Clothilde sounds ideal.”
“No future in it,” replied the little man.
“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” The Priest of Pram nodded to his acolytes gathered around him. Turning to the little dumpling spokesperson, he said, “Now that I have heard your story, I deem you most suitable for the tasks ahead.”
“How may I be of service, sir?”
“Make that five lattes, one sugar, two no foam no sugar, two caramel syrup. Got that?”
“On it, Boss. I can call you, ‘Boss?’”
The Priest of Pram winked and invited the rest of the band of merry little ones into the Pramidian Holy of Holies. Handing a purse to the little dumpling man, he said, “I trust you will use your great skills and cunning to triumph.”
Departing from the priest with a deep bow and a sweep of his cap, the little man saluted and said, “Your humble servant.”
A mild satire inspired by their list of fantasy novel tropes and clichés
“And just what qualifies you?” the Priest of the Pram gods asked.
“We’re short, for one thing,” the half-meter tall, dumpling-shaped man replied.
“Not so little. I’ve seen smaller.”
“Small enough to be called Little People and we come from a land that’s like medieval England.”
“Could help. What else you got?”
“We have about five wins against a few corrupt wizards and…”
“Just five?”
“And an evil tyrant in an extremely difficult to reach kingdom, beyond the Pramidian Ocean and past the range of Dire Woe Mountains.”
“So?”
“Who just happened to be my father.”
“You battled your own father?”
“Not exactly. He died just as we stormed his castle’s keep.”
“Stormed?”
“Well, snuck into.”
“You and who else?”
“My twin—I met her for the first time in the village nestled beneath the castle walls.”
“Nestled beneath?”
“That’s how we talk.”
“Anyone else?”
“A knight on his last quest for the perfect…”
Impatient, the Priest of Pram interrupted again. “Your adventures lack a certain something.”
“Oh, sorry, wait. I nearly forgot her (how could I do that?): Shana of the East, the clever former royal servant who stole the throne of Mordred II of the Wolds and Bournes, a misguided sorcerer if there ever was one, who died from his own poison brew. She led us.”
The Priest of Pram yawned, shook his head, and rolled his eyes as he looked at his chief acolyte. The minion shrugged and took a step toward the little man, but before he could grab his elaborate lacy collar, the diminutive fellow said, “Did I mention the dragon?”
“No-o-o,” replied the priest, dismissing his acolyte with a wave of his bejeweled hand. “Tell me more.”
The supplicant cleared his throat: “Ah-hem. No sooner had we crossed the drawbridge when a wave of terrific heat knocked us into the moat. The beasts that swam in those fetid waters would have eaten us alive, had the princess, my older sister, then unknown to me, not drained the moat, thus extinguishing the beasts and allowing us to climb out.”
“But what of the dragon?”
“Ah, yes, the dragon, all sparkling blue and simmering, had claimed the princess as her rider. When the princess—I knew her as Clothilde—revealed her kinship to me and my twin sister, the dragon extinguished her fire and cleaned the moat muck off us with her forked tongue, a rather strange and disturbing experience.”
“And then?”
“And then, we took the castle, joined a grand celebration and were allowed to serve the princess Clothilde from then on.”
“Why are you here? Your situation with Princess Clothilde sounds ideal.”
“No future in it,” replied the little man.
“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” The Priest of Pram nodded to his acolytes gathered around him. Turning to the little dumpling spokesperson, he said, “Now that I have heard your story, I deem you most suitable for the tasks ahead.”
“How may I be of service, sir?”
“Make that five lattes, one sugar, two no foam no sugar, two caramel syrup. Got that?”
“On it, Boss. I can call you, ‘Boss?’”
The Priest of Pram winked and invited the rest of the band of merry little ones into the Pramidian Holy of Holies. Handing a purse to the little dumpling man, he said, “I trust you will use your great skills and cunning to triumph.”
Departing from the priest with a deep bow and a sweep of his cap, the little man saluted and said, “Your humble servant.”