Untitled

The trick, she discovers, is kindness.

~

Werewolves are notoriously violent. They are said to “lose all autonomy” on night of the full moon, and transforming on other days still results in “heightened levels of testosterone and violence.”

If you tell someone that they are something their whole lives– if you tell a little girl that the color white is purple, that she is dumb because she writes backwards, or that she is bad because her hair or her financial situation, she will believe that. She will grow into that. If you tell a werewolf that they are evil and violent when wolves, that at their freest they are their meanest: they will believe that. They will become that. They will expect that of other werewolves and become defensive, will have bred hatred for their brethren before they ever transform.

An outsider’s perspective is sometimes needed.

And it starts, as most things do, with a child.

~

“Look,” her brown fingers forcefully unfolded from the fist it had been making. “I know what I want. I want the child you said you couldn’t even find fosters for. I already signed the paperwork!”

The social worker sighed, skin washing out under the light and wrinkles deepening. “I have to make sure. I’ve been trying to find little Zora parents for years now, but…”

“The only issue would be health issues. I can afford an unhealthy or disabled child, so that’s not an issue for me at all. I don’t get why you’re being so–”

“Zora is a werewolf.”

Silence.

Hailey took a breath. Let it out.

“So?”

The social worker smiled, “Then one more signature, and in a few weeks you will have your child, and Zora will have her home.”

Neither of them mentioned his tears. They both talked over what she would need to buy to handle a werewolf child– her werewolf child. They drank tea. She signed papers.

She would never regret that.

~

Zora had the yellow eyes of all lycans. She grinned shyly with too-sharp teeth, and fiddled with her too-long nails.

Hailey gave Zora the softest blanket she could buy, and settled her down for hot chocolate as they watched the sun set from the porch.

She had dimples and threw her hands around and enjoyed talking. And loved the color green. And brown. And blue. Maybe red was her favorite color, but pink was certainly a close second. No, wait, purple. She liked ice cream and steak and chicken and flowers that grew between the cracks of the sidewalk.

Zora was perfect.

The doctor said that Zora would transform the next full moon. To lock her in a cage. To muzzle her. To chain her up.

Hailey looked at Zora. At her large yellow eyes so filled with hope. At the way she used her too-long nails to open bags of chips or used her too-long teeth to open cans. At the sundresses she wore; pictured the paint-stained overalls. The room they had painted like a galaxy, the glow-in-the-dark stars they’d taped and hung on her ceiling.

She thought about the small, lycan-run website she made, and some controversial, revolutionary ideas it proposed.

She snorted. Yeah, right. Lock and chain her child up? No.

~

The first transformation was always painful. An online forum said nothing more than a Aspirin or two could be taken for this first Shift.

“Mom?” Zora’s lips wobbled. Her bushy hair tangled from the nervous pulling it had endured that day. “I– I don’t want to be bad, mom. Will the Shift make me bad?”

Hailey could have said anything to that, and no one would blame her. She could say it’s not you, it’s the wolf, like one website recommended. She could say yes, and every second you have to fight against the evil inside you, like one Christian-extremist group urged. She could have said anything. She said,

“No. You are good, and the wolf is a part of you, so it must be good, too.”

And it was that simple.

The moon rose. A daughter screamed, a mother cried. A mother prepared to have to wrestle her child, so much stronger than her, to have to assert an unwanted dominance.

A werewolf– too large to be a real wolf, spine to straight, claws too split, to be something so mundane. It yipped. Saw the hesitation in the mother’s eyes. Rolled onto its back, tongue lolling, and yipped again.

Hailey laughed. “Good girl! I love you so much! Want pets, or play?” A yip, the lycan bounded off. More laughter. “Play it is, then!”

~

There’d been complaints. A neighbor said they “feared for their life” and that “the lycan had attacked” her. Zora didn’t leave the backyard, despite how much she wanted to. So, once a month, they drove to a werewolf forest-reserve. They hadn’t encountered any other lycans.

Until then.

A grey wolf burst out from the bushes, snarling and snapping. Intent on Zora. Zora.

“Zora!” Hailey didn’t need to think, she was moving before words could form.

“Don’t you DARE touch my daughter!” She stood in front of Zora, arms spread wide.

That did not deter the lycan, who prowled closer. Yellow eyes. She could not hurt yellow eyes. But she must.

~

Werewolves have exceptionally large forms. A younger, adolescent lycanthrope in its Shifted form can easily tower over an adult man. These large forms are one of their greatest assets: they can overpower their prey though sheer size. It is, however, also a weakness. For, you see, their vulnerable points are that much more exposed. Which is why, if one becomes cornered by a Shifted lycanthrope, it is recommend that you strike at their diaphragm or throat, if help cannot be contacted, before absconding away as quickly as humanly (or superhumanly) possible.

~

She rushed forward, swinging her elbow and digging it into the small hollow near the creatures chest. It yowled, falling to the side. It growled and backed away.

Zora whimpered, tail between her legs and ears down. She nuzzled at her mother worriedly, terrified of the bigger werewolf and scared for her mother’s life.

“It’s okay, baby.” she hushed, holding out a spray-bottle (Zola loved to try to bite the sprays of water) like it was a gun, eyes never leaving the (violent, evil, human) attacking lycan. “See? Mommy knows what she’s doing.”

She stepped forward once. Twice. Four steps and then she hit a stride. She stood nose-to-nose with the lycan, all five-feet of her stretching tall, towering in presence if not height.

“Bad.” The lycan growled. She sprayed it twice in quick succession. “Bad.”

It blinked. Surprised.

“Now, if you wanted to play, you could have just waited!” She turned, walking purposefully in Zora’s direction. “Come along, now.”

They did come along, by lunging. Zora howled, bunching up her muscles and preparing to attack, but Hailey whirled around, spraying their face. “Don’t be mean! We don’t want to fight. I have steak, and am willing to share. But only to those who play. Nice.” They considered, head tilting, before thumping to the ground and rolling over, whining.

Hailey laughed, but wiped the anxious sweat from her forehead. “Okay, let’s go!”

~

The next full moon, the black-and-white wolf found her, a pack behind them, all barking and waiting for plays and pets and meat.

~

The full moon after that, everyone fell asleep just before the sun rose, and Hailey met them as people.

Hardin was the black-and-white, and she was alpha. Or rather, she had been.

“What.” Hailey couldn’t comprehend.

“My name used to be Phir’Hilaaya, but now it is Hardin. Normal pack members are given two-syllable names. The Alpha gets three-syllables. As previous Alpha, I name you Melora.” Hardin was gigantic in her human form, as well. Hulking muscles, and she stood at least at six-foot. Her yellow eyes had become softer than when Hailey– Melora?–

“Okay, yeah. I get that part. But how did I become Alpha?” She bit her lip, held Zora closer to her.

Hardin gave her a look like she was particular stupid, but humored her regardless. “That first night, I showed my belly to you. An Alpha can never submit to an opponent, else they lose their place. I submitted to you, so you are Alpha.”

Hailey hunched in on herself, and whispered, “I don’t know how to be Alpha.”

“That’s okay,” Hardin put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a kind smile, “I’ll help you get on your feet.”

Melora stood taller. Looked at her daughter. And knew.

~

Melora’s pack was not the first to fight for werewolf rights. No, they were simply the first to have a human leading the pack, and for that human-Alpha to be dating the previous Alpha.

As they strode towards a better world, a better life, Melora suggested, “Maybe we can help the vampire community, once we make more progress here.”

Hardin, bouncing Zora on her hip, barked a laugh, “You’re too good. But wherever you go, we’ll follow.” Howls broke out around the Alpha.

Hailey, now Melora, had known she wouldn’t regret this.

A little bit of kindness goes a long way.

~Fin~

Oh, geeze. This was supposed to be a little thing, but I wrote six pages on google docs for this and hrrrggghhh. I didn’t get to include everything I wanted, otherwise it would have taken hours longer! I hope this is something like you were imagining for your prompt idea. I wish I had more time to do things for this, but it wasn’t meant to be D: 

It's fine. This is a readily comprehensible human illogic. Exactly the kind of thing he expected from moving to Earth.

And he decides he’s honored by it, in a humanly illogical way.

The humans are asking him to do what is after all his job, and specifically requesting him for the joy his name brings them on top of an already agreeable and satisfying task. He has no objection to engendering positive emotions in others. Harm hastens the heat-death of the universe, Surak teaches, so happiness must logically slow it down. 

Plus, Vulcans of his generation love puns. There were two decades of punning competitions in colleges across the planet. So when he realizes that he is a walking zero-effort pun, and that the humans also love the pun, he is all for it. He is the Joe Cool of the entire Vulcan population in his city. 

And via this pun, the humans are including him in a cherished and traditional myth, by casting him as the literal bringer of life and the expander of families. 

I work for a corsetier at a Renaissance Faire. We sell corsets. Not flimsy bullshit costume corsets; like real, durable, waist-training corsets. Today a woman came in with her boyfriend, so I helped her pick out a corset and try it on. While her boyfriend—who was decidedly enthused about the whole corset thing—sat watching me lace her in, he told me, grinning, “Of all the good jobs at the Renaissance Faire, I think you have the best.”

I shrugged in agreement. “I touch butts and reach down cleavage all day; I mean…” Because we like to be a bit rakish at the Faire, and, y’know, it’s true. Tying people into corsets pretty much invariably requires getting handsy.

The couple laughed at that, and the boyfriend said, “That’s the job I would want!” But then he chuckled again and said, offhand, “Or maybe not; while we were looking at the racks, there were some pretty big sizes on there!”

Our sizes are all done in inches, and the biggest we make is a 46. And you’d better believe our large sizes sell. For a second I wasn’t sure what to say to the guy’s comment, but I answered him casually. “We get a lot of beautiful big ladies in here.” Because we do. “We make corsets for real women, not Barbie dolls,” I added. Wasn’t trying to be smart, just kind of tossed it out there because that’s the line we like to use when people ask about larger sizes, and because, again, we do.

The boyfriend went quiet at that; I didn’t think anything of it, I just kept on lacing. A moment later, he said, a little awkwardly (but sincerely enough), “Didn’t mean to be offensive.”

I quickly smiled and brushed it off, said he wasn’t, said I was just saying. (Don’t want to make the customers uncomfortable, you know?) And that was the end of it. His comment had rubbed me the wrong way, but it wasn’t a big deal. Now, I wear a 20-inch corset. I’m a few cup sizes short of being one of the Barbie dolls. Like his girlfriend, I’m one of the “hot chicks”; he doesn’t have to worry about offending me by implying that I wouldn’t be fun to poke and pull at.

Honestly though, of all the people I fit sexy technically-undergarments to in a day, fat girls are maybe my favorite people to lace up. Because they are just so damn happy that we have stuff that fits them. They are so damn happy that the corsets we make in their sizes are all the same pretty, shiny colors and cool flower/dragon/skull/etc. prints that the smaller corsets are, not ugly beige and boring “granny” colors. They are so goddamn happy that at least one (of several on the grounds) corset shop carries things that they can wear, that they actually want to wear, and that they look fucking awesome in. This is only my second season working, and we’ve fit 60+ inch waists and double-K busts. The only people we’ve ever had to tell sorry, we don’t have anything that fits them, are twelve-year-old kids.

It’s half-wonderful, half-heartbreaking how excited those women get. Women who say with sad smiles, when we ask if they want to get fitted, “Oh, no, you don’t have anything that fits me,” and then are stunned when we’re 300% confident that yes we do, and we have options. Women who can’t stop smiling and looking at themselves in the mirror after we’ve got them laced in.

I had a lady last week whose waist I measured (cinching the tape tight, as per procedure) at 41 inches—honestly not all that big. So she picked out a 41-inch corset to try on. I could tell halfway through getting her laced that it was going to be a bit big for her, so I mentioned it and said she might do better to try a smaller size. She started crying on the spot. She was so overwhelmed; she couldn’t believe someone had just told her that a 41 was too big. She told me about how hard clothes shopping was for her, how her mother would tell her she needed an XXXL instead of an XXL, how she had recently lost weight but still couldn’t wear certain colors because they didn’t fit or she wasn’t confident enough.

She did end up getting her corset, and after I checked her out she asked if she could give me a hug, so we ended up standing there hugging each other for a minute. While we did, I told her, “Do not ever let anyone tell you any bullshit. You are gorgeous.” She said, “I have a new boyfriend and he keeps telling me that.” I told her he was right, and to just keep telling herself she’s gorgeous; it was okay if she didn’t always believe it, but to keep telling herself anyway. (That’s how I talked myself through shit when I had bad anxiety.)

We all know fat-shaming is bad. The stupidity, fatphobia, and misogyny of it has pissed me off since I first became aware of it. But working with clothing, especially as figure-hugging and precise as corsets, has given me a new perspective on it—how much it affects people and just how shitty it is. Like, what does it say that I had a grown, only average-big woman crying into my shoulder because she was so overjoyed not to be the uppermost extremity of what a manufacturer can clothe?

My job rocks and it’s really rewarding, but sometimes it highlights some of the ugliest shit about society. I’m so glad I work at a shop that’s not bullshit about body types and operates with more people in mind than just scrawny white chicks like me. The fat women I work with are a ton of fun to lace up, and they’re so much more than their size—they’re cool, they’re smart, they’re funny, they’re sweet, they’re great to talk to, and yes, they’re hot. I’m so damn done with them getting short-changed and shamed by petty fucks who refuse to make them nice clothes, who refuse to even try to work for them, who refuse to consider them pretty. This whole rant was useless and won’t get read, but I had to vent because it’s been driving me nuts.

bikes are quiet- if the zombies react to loud noises, they won’t hear you on a bike the way they might hear you in a car. bikes don’t need gas, meaning you won’t be stranded if you run out. bikes are much, much easier to maintain than a car- there’s no computer that can short out, no fiddly engine bits that could kill you if you mess with them wrong. you can learn how to maintain a bike with a couple weeks’ worth of classes. almost every adult knows how to ride a bike, and without cars on the road, it’d be much safer to do. 

what i’m saying is

And the update

I’ve been collecting the best Jorts tweets and waiting until the moment he showed up on my dash to post them. So here you are, the curated best of the past, oh, day or so:

Meanwhile, OP has continued tracking trash can mishaps on twitter:

And a quality photo of this sweet potato:

Link to the lovely video

There once was a ship that put to sea The name of the ship was the Jorts and Jean The ship she rolled and her closet doors closed Oh no, where’s Jorts? Oh no!

Soon may the smarter cat come To save poor Jorts so orange and dumb One day when the butterin’s done We’ll take our leave and go

When Pam came on, she had a plan To teach our Jorts about garbage cans Pam meant well but her plans fell flat When HR said, “don’t butter the cat”

Soon may the smarter cat come To save poor Jorts so orange and dumb One day when the butterin’s done We’ll take our leave and go

Now Jean the smart cat comes She saves poor Jorts so orange and dumb Now that the butterin’s done We’ll take our leave and go

We’ll take our leave and go

We’ll take our leave and go

Additional quality memes:

A recipe for Buttered Jorts:

Recent Jorts activities:

And some very wise words from the cat himself:

bruh

HAVE YOU FUCKING TRIED EMBROIDERY?

I'm making a little Bruno doll and it's taking hours to detail his ruana with little hourglasses, and she's over here embroidering a tapestry onto her skirt

Like?

And she has some 3D detailing on her blouse too!!

Don’t hate me, don’t hate me, remember the TARDIS, let me explain - 

At the end of the day, The Princess Bride is not about Westley; it’s not about Buttercup; it’s not about any of the characters; it’s not even really about True Love. The Princess Bride is a story about storytelling. The main characters of the movie are not Fezzik, not Inigo, but the Grandfather and the Boy. 

My proposal for a ‘kinda sequel but really really remake’ of The Princess Bride: We would start with Fred Savage, the Boy from the first take of the movie, showing up to work. He then runs into his coworker, played by Queen Latifah, and asks, ‘Hey, is your granddaughter still sick?’, and she says, ‘Yeah, I’m actually going home early today, so I can watch her tonight’. 

Savage’s character then smiles, hands her a book, and says, ‘Hey, when you go, read this to her. My grandfather used to read this to me, and I loved it.’ 

And every directorial decision you make for the whole movie process is how that little girl imagines the story as being told by her grandmother. 

Dylan Hollis - PEANUT PIE (TikTok Vintage Recipe)

The worst part of it is that the new king takes at least part of his harem with him everywhere and it’s so embarrassing. The Counselors of War have never once met with His Divine Majesty without that hulking battle-scarred consort interrupting with muttered growls or scornful snorts. And the Ministers of Finance all flinch at the sight of that fox-faced one, rumored to have been rescued from the gallows because His Augustness took a fancy to his eyes or some such nonsense. General petition days are even worse, with practically the entire harem drifting in and out of the Grand Hall in turns, insouciant and smug like granary cats who know they’ve been given full run of the courtyards and barns.

#BUT THEN

#somehow she’s befrIENDED THE CONCUBINES

#sometimes they follow HER around!! in public!! 

#the king and queen are  s h a r i n g  t h e  h a r e m

It’s a mistake—a wrong number, per se. No witch it’s ever known has lived in such an, ah, dated, home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if they’d up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didn’t work that way. Not at all. Not if they want to survive the encounter.

It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacent—the kitchen, going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It moves—feels something slip beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top, as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger. It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into this strange place.

As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.

Now, to be fair, the demon wouldn’t ordinarily second guess being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless) grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.

“Todd! Todd, dear, I didn’t know you were visiting this year! You didn’t call, you didn’t write—but, oh, I’m so happy you’re here, dear! Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a heart attack. And don’t worry about the blood, here—I had an accident. My favorite figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didn’t go as expected. But I seem to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and ‘edgy’ stuff these days, so I don’t suppose you mind.” She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isn’t mocking, it’s sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. “Imagine if it leaves a scar! It’d be a bit ‘badass,’ as you teenagers say, wouldn’t it?”

She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear, because the demon is by no means a ‘Todd’ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only because it had been caught off guard.

The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. “Be a dear and make some more coffee, would you please? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues, while others discuss how many souls they’d swindled in exchange for peanuts, or how many first-borns they’d been pledged for things idiot humans could have gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic that little detours like this were a blessing—happy accidents, as the humans would say.

That’s why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. That’s why it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully, so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine with fresh grounds. It’s as the hot water is percolating that the old woman returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.

“I’m surprised you’re so tall, Todd! I haven’t seen you since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the time—you do love wearing all black, don’t you?” She takes a seat at the small round table in the corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. “I was starting to think you’d never visit. Your father and I have had our disagreements, but…I am glad you’re here, dear. Would you like some cake?” Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated with icing.

It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesn’t seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that smells like an antique garage that hadn’t had its dust stirred in years.

Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.

The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite ‘thank you,’ but it doesn’t suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners regardless.

“Oh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so deep, just like your grandfather’s was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? It’s alright, dear, I’ll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.”

The demon merely nods—some communication can be understood without fail—and drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. It’s ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love that must have gone into its creation.

“I hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You never write back—but I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime. I know of a wonderful little café down the street we can go to. I haven’t been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before he…well.” She falls silent in her rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind that.” Suddenly, and with surprising speed that has the demon concerned for her well being, she moves to her feet, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. “I may as well give you your birthday present, since you’re here. What timing! I only finished it this morning. I’ll be right back.”

When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning circle is bundled in her arms.  

“I found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the library. I thought you’d like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the winter chill—I hope you do like it.” With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket over the demon’s broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders and patting its arms affectionately. “Happy birthday, Todd, dear.”

demon: you’re not blind here – but you’re not surprised. when…?

anette: oh, toddy, don’t be silly, my biological grandson’s not twelve feet tall and doesn’t scorch the furniture when he sneezes. i’ve known for ages.

demon: then why?

anette: you wouldn’t have stayed if you weren’t lonely too.

demon: you… you don’t have to keep calling me your grandson.

anette: nonsense! adopted children are just as real. now quit sniffling, you silly boy, and let’s go bake a cake. honey, heel!

But that can wait. Your guest is tired, jumpy, and understandably in need of time to rest and recover. You won’t need her help for the warfare aspect anyway. You ensure your demonic servants will protect her with their lives and make her feel safe and welcome. Then you set aside some time in your busy schedule of conquest to check on the poor girl. Purely to determine whether she’s in prime condition for manipulating, of course. Your future puppet ruler will be more likely to cooperate if you build a solid foundation of respect and trust, after all.

Years of serving as the Dark Lord have taught you that your minions work harder when you treat them well. So you provide your young guest with everything she requests, within reason of course. She says she hasn’t slept well lately because her stuffed animal was left behind when she fled home. You ask if there are any other things of hers she misses from her old home. With a now completed list, you send your most covert operatives to the enemy palace to execute a most wicked heist of a stuffed animal and the princess’s dog dubbed Sir Meatball, as well as a few books she would read for comfort. You congratulate yourself on how evil it is of you to steal a dog. And just for good measure you have your minions perform reconnaissance on the palace. You’ll have to invade it soon anyway. May as well multitask.

The interesting thing is the hero the enemy sends to fight you. The chosen one it would seem, although it continues to baffle you how young he is. Young and impressionable. He barely knows how to hold that magic sword he wields. It’s barely light enough for him to lift. You send your winged minions to carry him toward your evil castle of dread and terror. You greet him at the landing pad on the roof. He insists on dueling you, even as his sword shakes in his sweaty palms. The prophecy says he will defeat you in a one-on-one duel. Very well, you decide. If something goes wrong you have medics on hand. You wouldn’t want someone to die from a friendly duel. He’s no match for you, you soon find. You humor him for a while. He obviously came a long way to duel you after all, and you can tell he’s trying very hard to hit you with that sword. You give him a few passing tips as you fight, and he thanks you awkwardly.

Then the princess interrupts your duel. “Maximus!” She chides, “you promised to take me dragon riding this afternoon!”

You turn to your dark secretary of doom, Jerry, who squints at the evil schedule of hopelessness and cries out. “Ah! She’s right, my lord. My sincerest apologies.”

“That’s alright, my faithful minion,” you say while holding the tip of the chosen’s sword between two fingers. “This whole duel thing was a bit of a spontaneous thing, and I should have looked at the schedule first.” You look down at the boy. “I’m sorry, child, but it seems I have a commitment to fulfill with the dear princess. Can we reschedule this duel for a later date?”

“Wh-what? No! The duel has already started, you can’t just back out like that!” He says, trying with all his might to pry his sword free from your grip.

“Very well,” you say with a sigh. “In that case, I forfeit, and you win the duel by default. There, that fulfills the prophecy. Would you like a ride home?”

The chosen one blinks with shock. “I-“

“Oh, what am I saying? You’ve come all this way, you must be exhausted. You ought to stay for dinner later. We’re having doom chicken soup of eternal darkness! It’s absolutely to die for.”

The boy looks at the princess quizzically. She assures him it’s just normal chicken soup. You vehemently deny this, saying you’re evil cook of evilness Frederick is supernaturally good at his job, and to refer to the fruits of his labor as “just normal soup” would be an insult to all the work he puts in.

You take the princess dragon-riding, and later that evening during dinner the chosen one breaks down crying. You ask him what’s wrong. He opens up about his confusion. He’d spent his entire journey up on this point dreading the responsibility thrust upon him. He’d barely survived several encounters with monsters and demons and now that he’s here, he’s questioning his entire perspective. After all, he says, you’ve been treating him better than anyone ever did back home and despite the spiky black armor you seem so genuinely kind. He doesn’t know what to do, he confesses.

You reassure him that no one expects anything of him, and that he can stay as long as he’d like, or he could simply go back home in the morning. You won’t stop him. He says he still has to fulfill the other half of the prophecy, freeing the princess from those who would cause her harm. The princess assures him that she is not in any danger where she is, and that if he really wants to fulfill the prophecy he ought to help you overthrow her parents.