Bone Valley

Sir Richard Dri’ Asabone didn’t mean to annoy people. But regrettably, he had one of those faces, which was easy to hate!

Not saying he was toxic or mean on the inside, and this then affected how he looked on the outside.

No!

Sir Richard was an extraordinarily handsome man. He had thick, wavey blonde hair. Blue eyes that shone like stars in the midnight sky. A chin that was broad and robust, and cheekbones high and pronounced as snow-covered mountain tops.

No, it was not his physical appearance that rubbed the entire population of Bone Valley up the wrong way; it was his personality.

Sir Richard was, he felt, a continuously happy, supportive and kind man. He never had a bad word to say about anyone. If he saw a burning building or hovel, as the case may be, he knew he would run into it, saving any occupants and family pets not already barbecued and then afterwards, he also knew he would not expect a word of thanks.

Down on your luck and in need of a helping hand? Then Sir Richard would give you his gloriously manicured mandible to hold, regardless of how dirty you were.

Sir Richard was, he felt, the ‘People’s Hero’.

And this is where he came unstuck.

In real life, most people are naturally set on a low level of depressing, stingy meanness. Life’s lousy luck, we narcissistically believe, will always happen to us. This belief doesn’t make the human population a bunch of horrible whinging people; it just makes us a bunch of realists because, as we know, along the way, life at various points does suck quite vigorously.

Life takes joy in sticking the boot in, usually right at the most opportunistic time. Most often, when your pants are down around your ankles, and you are in no way seeking an audience. (Just ask Torren about the soap incident; he will confirm this actuality with shuddering PTSD.)

Sadly, when you’re having one of those boot-kicked sucky days, the last thing you need around you is a ray of sunshine telling you how gloriously excellent everything is. How extremely lucky we all are, and wouldn’t it be wonderful to shake hands on it and agree?

Sir Richard is that little ray of sunshine!

So, with this in mind, you’ll understand when Torren and Beatrix peered over the protective trolleys and saw Sir Richard dressed in his shining white and silver brocade armour, glistening heroically in the sunshine, why both of them reacted with the same dread-filled statement.

“Oh, bloody hell, not him!”

The dragon, on the other hand, didn’t have, shall we say, a taste for tinned food, so she ignored Sir Richards’s dazzling stance and concentrated on the somewhat strange but familiar scent that wafted along a light zephyr into her nostrils.

To her, this delicious scent said, ‘Look, I know you’ve got a very important secret mission to carry out, but right now I can smell sexy man dragon.” It then canoodled, “Come let us find this sexy beast ’cause here’s an opportunity to have a little bit of “Romance.” And on an even deeper primordial level, it screamed at her ovaries with a very powerful megaphone…

‘“TIME TO MAKE A BABY!”

So, under this wafting influence, the single-minded yellow dragon viewed Sir Richard as nothing more than an annoying little blowfly trapped in a tin can who wouldn’t buzz off!

On the other hand, Sir Richard, as per usual, did not pick up on the Dragon’s beady-eyed glances, nor did he comprehend the short-tempered meaning behind it. And he certainly did not notice the quick slashing swish of her tail, which to anyone with half a brain or back of a cereal box knowledge of dragons basically meant, ‘lookout, she’s getting her talons ready to gut you like a fish, so it would be wise if you checked your life insurance and made a break for it!’

Unfortunately for Sir Richard, his heavily padded helmet tended to block off most vision and auditory warnings. So, maybe if this gallant knight had removed his silver-scrolled helmet, he might have heard the low throaty warbles coming up from the yellow reptile’s baritone stomach.

From their damp hovels, the neighbouring citizens of Bone Valley poked their little whiskery faces out from their dumps… Sorry, I mean homes and watched in delighted glee as Sir Richard trotted up on his horse, named aptly Lady Betty and removed his mace from its holder on his horse’s side.

Lady Betty, it must be said, was rather annoyed at being taken out at this time of the night. This extremely expensive, highly pampered pedigree preferred to be in her lovely warm stall at this hour of sunset, nibbling her fresh hay and doing a nice new warm pile of horsey apples. Her bowels, which operated on a strict calendar of events, were sending warning signals that they were not happy with the change of routine.

Through a peeled-back hessian sausage, Torren and Beatrix watched with fascination.

“I can’t believe they let him out of the castle.” Torren’s voice contained a highly unusual amount of disbelief. “Surely, the petition we all signed to remove his ‘heroing rights’ meant something!” His accusations of disbelief were flung wildly at Beatrix. “Can’t you witches do anything about him?”

Beatrix couldn’t tear her eyes off the knight as both blue orbs were waiting with anticipation for the eventual occurrence they both knew would be coming. “I think the witch council voted to let nature take its course!”

Torren, unlike Sir Richard, had a clear view of the dragon and knew exactly what the titanic beast’s beady-eyed, tail flicking and throaty growls meant. Yes, admittedly, the dragons he dealt with were 100 times smaller, but the message was still the same.

Beatrix began chewing at her nails, “I mean,” she warbled, “it’s not as if I haven’t told Mother Heggerty that he’s not the best material for a ‘Civic Unity’ advertising campaign.” She stopped and pondered for a moment, “I mean, sure, we’d all like to see the back end of him, but he’s not the figurehead of unity we need right now.” The young witch sighed, “But what would I know?”

Torren moaned, “I just hope you’ve got lots of posters painted of him before this barbequing session ’cause I doubt he’s going to look as good afterwards.”

“Foul beast of the darkest pitiless hole, begone. Take thy yellow hide and scamper back to the obscurity from which you came.”

The sun glinted off his lustrous helmet as Sir Richard stood heroically on a pile of dirt that Lady Betty had kindly added to in her own special way before wandering off. Pedigree she may have been, spoiled to the core definitely, but dumb? …NOPE!

The yellow dragon turned her colossal scaled head toward the tiny knight and hissed a final warning for the tinned lunch meat to catch onto.

Thankfully, the suit didn’t hinder his sense of smell. The sulphurous and gassy stench from her overly hot breath sent a clear message to all the essential bits of Sir Richard’s brain and body. Thankfully, both entities worked in quick unison to save his life.

With a quick tap of the mace to his helmet and a “Right you are!” he was off.

Unfortunately, the weight of the mace Sir Richard held in his hand, plus the weight of the armour, made him run with a leaning to the left. And even though he wanted to run right past a particularly weird-looking hovel with large wooden and metallic doors, he ran right up to them instead.

…Well, ‘run’ might be too big a word to describe the hobble, weave and clank method of locomotion Sir Richard employed.

Nobody tells you just how much pretty armour chafes until the darn bill has been paid! If he’d had any say in it, Sir Richard would not have worried so much about glint glitter and scrolls. He would have gone with a leather jerkin set, reinforced chest padding, a helmet with a sun visor and softness in the nether region.

The doors echoed as metal met metal.

“Let me in, good citizens; it is I, your hero, Sir Richard Dri’ Asabone!”

“No, fu…” The rest of the word was muffled as a seeming rustled fight occurred behind the doors. A sweet and delicate voice called out.

“Sir Knight, I am sorry we cannot let you in. We are but weak women hiding behind such heavy doors, and sadly, we are unable to lift such heavy latches. Pray, please, scamper hither to over the road. Our neighbours are definitely home.”

“What are you doing? Just tell him to fu…” A muffled thump followed the man’s voice.

Sir Richard looked behind him at the dragon, who was twisting her head left and right in puzzlement. He gave himself about 3 minutes more to get behind the doors or begin to apply BBQ sauce liberally to his nether regions.

“Fair maiden, I am sent on a mission by Mother Heggerty herself. I implore you to dig deep into your weak womanly heart and find the strength to lift just one of the latches and save your hero. I will reward you handsomely with my unwavering kindness and gratitude.”

The voice returned, not as high-pitched or as sweet as before. “Mother Heggerty, you say.”

The dragon sniffed the air again, seeking her lover boy.

“Yes, fair maiden. Mother Heggerty herself.” Sir Richard resisted the temptation to bang and rattle the door.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? Leave my sausage alone. I shoved it in there for a reason; now leave it there! Stop tugging at it.”

The embarrassment the City’s one and only Knight felt at hearing such a disgusting conversation was only brushed aside by his deep-seated need to live.

“For the goddess’s sake, you bloody peasants. Let me in, or Mother Heggerty will hunt you down and sear you both over an open flame.” He took a deep breath and gathered himself back to a more acceptable social plane. “Please. I beg you, please don’t let me die!”

The moments of silence felt like an eternity of torture to Sir Richard as his heart hammered like a drum.

“Get out of the way. Let me pull my sausage out properly. You’ll only damage it!” The male’s voice was somehow familiar.

“Don’t tell me what to do, I know how to tug on a sausage.”

“Yes, but if you don’t hold it properly, you’ll rip it in two.”

“I’m not being that rough with it! Look see… It’s out now!”

Quietly, the doors opened just enough for Sir Richard to slither in between. “Hurry up, get inside now, you idiot, before you kill us all.” Torren grabbed a handful of gilt and pulled.

Unfortunately, the doors were also open just enough for Torren’s smell to slither out and, like a reckless hitchhiker, stick its thumb out and catch a ride on a serial killer breeze that delivered his sent straight into the yellow dragon’s nose.

Sir Richard paused and enquired politely, “Do you have a rotting corpse in your hole?”

“Shut up and Get IN HERE NOW!” was the only chorused reply as two sets of hands pulled at his breastplate.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!” The dragon wiggled her eyebrows as she realised, with titillation and excitement, that now, she knew where her mate was. He, that big naughty boy, was hiding in the hole with the tinned lunch meat.

A quiver ran over her yellow shimmering scales as pent-up lust began to build. She always liked to play hide and seek with her potential suitors.

A loud purr of pure delight rang out across the city.

“Oh shit, shove my sausage back in! Shove it in quickly. Shove it like your life depends on it!” was the only muffled reply.

Thank you for reading and… for subscribing! :)

Subscribe and let me know what you think!