Dragon Tale Continued Pt. 3

I am truly a sight sitting at the computer these days. My butt is precariously perched on a large blue exercise ball and I'm wearing some sort of harness that keeps my shoulders pulled back. I'm also sporting, in true fashionista style, a whiplash collar wrapped snugly about my neck. All this is an effort to minimize the upper back pain that sitting seems to cause or, at least, aggravate. Ah well, I'm sure there are other wordsmiths who do their thing standing up.


Now, where was I? Fearful the dragon hiding in the bush, a drunken Snarly taking up the hunt, Laughsalot following the hide-and-seek clues. Okay, that's where I was, but what the hell was I thinking?


Livingston Laughsalot, being a playful and cheery sort of chap, skipped lightly through the brush alternately singing and whistling "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off in search I go," a catchy diddy that a dwarf hidden behind a mushroom of enormous proportions would put to memory and pass on to the next dwarf generation where it would be enhanced and elaborated upon and passed further along the generational trail until one day it found its way to the sound track of an animated Disney film whose artists co-opted from the fairy world on a regular basis and called it inspiration. Livingston felt it only fair to Fearful that he announce when he was drawing near. He knew the sound of his voice would heighten her anticipation and add to her enjoyment of the moment when she would spring from cover and cry "Gotcha!" Of course gotcha in dragon sounded something like the world's loudest beer burp, but Livingston had grown used to that and didn't mind. Pushing a broad leafed fern charred at the edges out of his way and noting that it was still warm to the touch, Livingston expected Fearful's leap at any moment. What he didn't expect was the clap of a gunshot nearby. Ducking instinctively, he paused for just a second and then, fearing for Fearful, he sprinted as best he could through the dense growth, hopefully, he thought, to the rescue.

Lord Snarly Flatulence, was, quite thankfully, a terrible shot when sober and only marginally better when drunk; his hand being somewhat steadier in the latter condition. Not being particular about what he shot, he being a lord and thus exempt from both prosecution and conscience, he was not above firing at any movement in the bush with identification of the target a post shot consideration. It was, in fact, his preferred method of hunting. Had he, on this occasion, realized he had just put one over the head of Laughsalot, he would have been distraught at his inaccuracy. He and Livingston were not the best of friends. Seeing the movement of the brush, he realized he had missed whatever was out there and, fueled by rage and additional hits of cider to straighten his aim, he darted after his prey; darted being, in his case, a synonym for staggering with intent.