Dear Smok,
It has come to
my attention (eat your heart out Scaligar) that I have lately attended the
greatest manifestation of Draconian conflict since the formation of stupidity.
However, I shall recount this crime against enlightenment without a single
troubled bone. Not a one. I take no responsibility for the damage done to the
Western Wiles, and shall divulge the following with a clean slate. Seriously,
don’t tell anybody.
It all began with the wretched secret
council. Never liked it, you know, always had a bad feeling in my spine (later
I realized this was due to the buffalo wing lodged between my outer scales. I
advise you never to tip a waiter sparingly, as they have no conscience and an
evil disposition). But if I had afore-realized the approaching conflagration of
incompetency I would have retired as a 300-year old.
Accordingly with the council’s
information, a team of Dragons wearing ebony cloth ninja suits (which looked
amazingly alike to toilet paper painted black) arrived at my cave and promptly
introduced my delicate taste buds to the tail of the same Dragon I had attached
my jaws to, the latter council date. I shall never look at cucumber marinated
cardboard again the same.
They promptly blindfolded me, in
expensive cloth whose smell was strangely affinitive with ten year old, thrice
wretched black gym socks. Likely my imagination, an enterprise such as the
Draconian Secret Council surely could afford equipment surpassing athletic wear
with asserted radioactivity.
I was flown swiftly over a time span of
perhaps a day, in which time all I had to eat was a forlorn buffalo wing, and
then landed on the same ground I had
memorized the characteristics of in the last council. No how I recognized it? Tasted
like cardboard, looked like landfill fodder, smelled just like the
scent I remembered from my previously encounter.
I was led down into the same dark,
room. The only difference was that it was already packed with Dragons, all I
realized, in desperate need of underarm deodorant. Smelled like a ferret
bathhouse down there.
I was then released from my odious
pupil bond (I swear I heard a Geiger counter go off) and I then saw a circle of
shadowy silhouettes surrounding the same dark pool I had recently cinderized in
an upheaval of righteous retaliation. The meeting began sooner than I expected
and the head Dragon quickly outlined our current situation. From anonymous
intelligence, we had determined that the invasion through the Western Wiles
would take place only eight hours from the current hour.
The invasion force would consist of
several dozen battle-hardened Dragons, possibly form the Outlands or merely the
out skirting unnamed Provinces. He warned us that we would be outnumbered, but
that he had chosen us for speed and skill in combat. I heard several cracking
of chest vertebrae as our sternum’s swelled.
The head Dragon told us for the moment
that we would go over the main plan of attack in the pool, by way of scrying
projection. A concentrated light blared into the pool and we all soon saw the
soggy outline of a map, sketched by the claw of a masterful artist. The
schematic showed the tunnel-like river pass that would lead straight into the
Western Provinces, and an incredibly detailed written battle plan was sketched
beside the painting’s impression of the tunnel.
Go tue Wylez, wate for bitt, ammbushz invayzun fors, kik teef in, throw oot uv brovunses. Hy
five! Kownt teef.
Incredible!
Never seen such complicated offensive plans in all my years. Such astute
explanation, such complex battle scheme, and such good code! None but the best
could decipher such a complicated algorithm. To say the least, I was very
impressed by the battle draft so far. And I had fully memorized the complex
execution plan, down to the last detail.
The head Dragon told us that we would
now continue up one by one onto the grounds and change into our pre-prepared
battle suits. I was anxious for my turn, and elbowed someone in the face, he
seemed to mutter something to do with “—ification!”, but it must have been my
imagination.
I was soon out of the cave and quickly
found my suit, as Trewbodockz was encoded upon its chest. I
quickly changed into it. Very comfortable, and very powerful too. Almost like
laired toilet paper, or black elastic filled with tissue.
Soon all of my fighting companions were
garbed out for war. A small Dragon, who claimed to be the head Dragon, told us
to ready ourselves quickly for battle. I re-sharpened my claws against a rock,
and introduced my tail to several trees.
A few minutes later the head Dragon
reappeared with our fighting standard. A giant tooth backed by two toilet paper
roles emblazoned upon a rainbow colored pennant. A truly fear-inducing flag of
war. He called us to attention, told to reposition our hoods for our identities
sake, and then with a roar we launched ourselves into the night air.
We flew swiftly for maybe five hours,
until we finally reached edge of the Western Provinces. Directly ahead were the
Western Wiles, and the path of invasion exactly in our path. With only minutes
to spare until the supposed time of invasion.
In actuality I
am telling this story in the present tense, as it is more prominent a telling
to narrate in my time of unknowing. Though of course I suspected the following
all along.
Suddenly from
a bank of rushes beneath the canopy tunnel a crowd of Dragons flew up toward us
yelling categorical curse words and yelling like heck. YOVIANS! They were all
Yovians! All scale color and overlap consistency pointed to one final
ultimatum, everything had been a sham! And I was the only one who had expected
it!
With betrayed
rage boiling in my gut like undigested chili, and swept forward and tore the
armor (toilet paper) off of our supposed leader. A YOVIAN also! I promptly
swatted him into a hedgerow with my righteous strength. That was when the rest
of the crowd realized it, however; unfortunately, it was also the exact moment
when the surprisingly powerful crowd of Yovians met with us.
It was only
due to my surprise and inadequate toiletry armament that a single Yovian, after
sinking his claw into my stomach, continued on to beat the living tar out of my
ambushed body. After a few minutes of the harsh reprimanding, I crunched down
on his toes, poked him in the eye with a wing tip, and furthered my martial art
prowess by pulling his snout and booting him into the water.
I then leapt
into the fray, indiscriminately grabbing a cursed Yovian by the sinewy neck and
beating him soundly around the mouth and snout. I then heard, through the
enemy’s remaining teeth something that sounded like Scaligar’s voice. An
obvious ploy, I proceeded to kick his face in a further seven inches, and not
until he yelled “IT’S ME YOU FOOL!” IN Scaligar’s exact tone that I realized my
his transgression. Not having told me who he was in time, he had forced me to
inflict upon him my full strength.
Fearing for his health, I subsequently
grabbed him by the hind claws and shoved him into a pothole in the round below.
The rest of the fight needn’t be
portrayed in any great detail, let us merely say that me constant suspicions
were correct and the renovation of the Western Wiles may take several years.
Unfortunately, Scaligar was not able to
pull himself from his earthen prison for several days, until with the help of
crane, an earth-mover, and a quart of axel grease he was able to pry himself
from the mole tunnel. I told him straight off that I had been solely concerned
with his health when I inflicted his violent treatment. His following
retaliatory volley of physical and highly un-needfully biased reprimands I shall not fully recount
to you, as you are young; and unscarred by this violent and explosive abundant
world.
Anyway, the Yovians fled back to their
wretched Province, once they realized I meant business. Of course I had seen
through their plan all along. Seriously, yep, definitely, true and blue, no
doubt about it.
Your clairvoyant uncle,
Trubodox
the Scarlet AND
GEEKADOAAAAAAH
P.S. Got him.
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