Soupkin and the Sprite
There weren’t always dragons in the valley. At least, they hadn’t always been in this valley. Soupkin, standing mournfully over the charred remains of yet another sheep, sighed, said a little prayer on behalf of the dear departed fleecy soul, then unwrapped a pickle and cheese sandwich and began to manfully drown his sorrows in gulping mouthfuls. A particularly well fermented piece of pickle made him sputter a little, and he reached out for the horn of beer that should have been on the rock beside him. It wasn’t.