The Princess and The Reluctant Knight

Episode 2

Alvin, the wide-eyed dreamer, stood sovereign in the soft luminescence of the Crooked Crow, a tavern notorious for its weak brew and motley patrons.

His fingers pranced across the lute strings, plucking out a rhythm that echoed the heartbeat of adventure as his voice swelled with the pride of a hero born not of flesh and blood, but of song:

"Gather 'round, ye souls brave and true,

To hear a tale of a fearsome view.

There I stood, in Brindlewood so stark,

Facing a beast feared in tales harked!"

Eye to eye with scales of night,

The Basilisk glared with dread might.

Its eyes, two embers of hellfire's glow,

And I, mere man, before it low."

"Eye to eye?" laughed Theodore, whose presence beside Alvin brought a contrast as stark as his worn-out leather footwear. "As I recall, the creature fancied the view of your fleeing backside more agreeably."

A fresh wave of laughter cascaded through the crowd like spectators doing 'the wave' in the stands of a jousting tournament.

Alvin's gaze at Theodore could have made a troll nervous. "Theodore, my dear cynic, why must you smear my moment of triumph with the soiled boots of veracity?"

"Because, Alvin," Theodore said, his smirk devilish, "your 'moment of triumph' holds as much authenticity as the 'dragon steak' listed on the bill of fare."

Yet Alvin's grin bore the mark of guile, his eyes Irish dancing with mischief. "Ah, but what is life without a touch of embellishment?"

Laughter thundered from the crowd. Mugs clinked in a symphony of gaiety.

Alvin, basking in the glow of his tale, bowed low, his posture reminiscent of a proud rooster in a hen house of ill repute. He stomped his foot in a catchy rhythm while strumming chords to continue his tune:

"But hold your gasps and still your fears,

For the beast's breath, foul as a toad's leers,

Could not sway the heart of a bard so keen,

Whose song could charm a creature mean."

He mimicked a shiver, then a triumphant pose, as the lute's tempo quickened, inviting foot taps and tankard clinks in rhythm:

"With naught but wit and strings to strum,

I faced the beast, its will to succumb.

A lullaby sweet, through danger's veil,

Guided it to slumber, ending the tale!"

As Alvin lowered his lute to the audience's applause, the tavern's entrance slammed open, hushing the crowd.

Into the dimness and through whispers stepped Sir Simon, his survey of the room as keen as a raptor on the hunt for its next feast.

"Alvin, the brave," Sir Simon said. "I have been told your tales stretch higher than the tower of Babel itself."

Alvin's pulse skipped like a stone over tranquil waters. Yet his grin did not waver but strongly considered it. "Sir Simon, to what do we owe the displeasure?"

Muffled snickers filled the space. The air was taut with the tension strung between Alvin and Simon.

Simon edged closer. "And how does one vanquish a Basilisk armed with naught but wit and a wooden spoon? Or has it now morphed into a pitchfork?"