The Princess and The Reluctant Knight

Episode 7

Sir Alvin's armor clanked melodiously, a veritable one-man band, as he trod the worn path to the Tipsy Griffin. With each step, his thoughts were thick with the dread of the quest before him -- a journey to the fabled Sea of Madness -- which sounded as inviting as a hug from a cactus.

Sir Theodore kept pace beside him, his gait steady as the ticking of a grand clock.

"Chin up, Alvin! Remember, 'tis not the strength of the sword arm that defines a knight, but the dauntless courage that beats within his breast!"

Alvin's breast felt less dauntless and more like getting pecked by the nervous chickens of second-guessing.

"Theodore, I am as courageous as a mouse in a cat's daydream."

"Nonsense." Theodore slapped him on the back, nearly sending Alvin sprawling onto the cobblestones. "You are as brave as they come. Why, I have seen you face down a horde of angry ants without so much as a flinch."

"Those ants were the size of thimbles, Theodore, and angrier about their stolen thimble house than at me."

At last, the Tipsy Griffin came into view. Its sign swung like a drunken pendulum, and the painted griffin seemed to hiccup with every gust of wind. The tavern's raucous din spilled out into the street, a dreadful melody of clinking glasses, boisterous laughter, and off-key singing.

Alvin hesitated at the threshold, the creaking sign above him like the groans of his self-doubt.

Sensing the moment's gravity, Theodore clapped a hand on Alvin's shoulder, almost knocking him down.

"Within these walls awaits the key to our quest. A map, Alvin! A map that charts the course to destiny!"

"I had not realized destiny was a real place. Does it lie beyond the Froggy Bog?"

Taking a breath that he hoped looked braver than it felt, Alvin stepped over the threshold, his itching, gauntlet-clad hand gripping the door as if it were the last solid thing in the world.

***

The Tipsy Griffin Tavern was less a sanctuary of life than a melting pot of peasant and noble alike as servers darted between tables like sparrows, balancing trays laden with frothing mugs and the occasional roast chicken that looked suspiciously like it had won several fights before losing the war.

Alvin's eyes scanned the room, searching for the telltale signs of a cartographer; someone with ink-stained fingers and the faraway gaze of one who dreams in latitudes and longitudes. Instead, his gaze met a sea of drunk faces, each one blurring into the next like a painter's watercolors caught in the rain.

Theodore nudged him forward, navigating the crowded room with ease.

"Fear not, Alvin. We shall find our mapmaker, and you will see your doubts will scatter like startled rats!"

As they squeezed through the crowd, the scent of ale and roasting meat warred with the less savory odors of sweat and smoke.

Alvin's stomach growled, reminding him that even knights plagued by existential angst must eat, and their food supplies had been stolen.

They reached the far end of the room, where a lone figure sat hunched over a parchment, quill in hand. His concentration was such that he seemed oblivious to the tavern's chaos, his focus a fortress that no merry shout or clinking tankard could breach.

Theodore grinned, clapping the man on the back with a gusto that sent the quill skittering across the parchment.

"Good sir! We are knights on a quest of great importance, and we seek your expertise to guide our path to The Sea of Madness!"