Sir Lies-Alot and the Clown’s Queen
Elsewhere in a forest there was a grotto… Sir Lies-Alot was lost and trying to find himself shelter from a storm. He found that hidden grotto and went for it. As he pitched down his un-necessarily heavy-weighing armor and all those other artifacts he was carrying, he expells a sigh. Un-fortunate he was looking for whatever it was he was looking for. His quest was confusing — Sir Lies-Alot had always been a hard-headed individual, un-able to read between lines-on-scrolls.
In a grotto, after resting and sighing ever-so-slightly repeatedly… He mustered courage to approach a puddling-reflection nearby. “Gosh I do feel — and look tired. *sigh*” That moment faced with his reflection, Sir Lies-Alot gave way to his narcissism. Allowing himself at first intermittent inflammary thoughts. Those cognitive-drops were enough to give way to his ponderation.
“That blimey clown…” He hated the court-jester. He was jealous of the jester for being so polarizing. More specifically he was jealous of the jester because he had the queen’s attention. Yes, that was it… “Blimey clown low-life piece-of-sh…” Angry he was at the jester for making subtle remarks.
Remark being that which initiated Sir Lies-Alot’s quest for that which he was un-certain. Where is Sir Lies-Alot heading to? Un-certain still it was. In ruminant ponderation he disturbed that puddle’s reflection with intermittent events. Sometimes punching the puddle, sometimes splashing his reflection. Bothered he was at it all.
As time went by… Maybe a couple minutes, maybe a few hours… Sir Lies-Alot fell asleep not far from that now muddy-puddle.
… What the hell? Where am I? Wondering and wondering in a grotto. A fox nearby quickly shows up.
*Fart!* Startled! Sir Lies-Alot wakes up with the explosion of his own fart. “Huh, what the hell?” He goes back to that pitched inventory, “where did I leave it? I thought I brought it along…” The scroll — where was the scroll?
Too late it was to find those missing events in the scroll. Sir Lies-Alot got distracted and settled for his canister. Un-screwed the top but not a single drop to quench his thirst. “… I bet this was the making of that… Clown.” Un-satisfied was Sir Lies-Alot with that whole situation he got involved with.
“Mud will have to do…” Sir Lies-Alot goes to the muddy pond water. It was less transluscent when he returned and that gave him some satisfaction. Appeased were some of his anxieties. Nonetheless not sufficient to spare him the taste of mud as he tried drinking from that puddle. “Argh… Muddy pond. Why is this dirt so… Argh! what a bad taste and smell.”
That un-fortunate situation now left a bad taste in his mouth. Stinky from the ride and dirty from his filth, now his innards poisoned by the water he drank. “That clown… *cough* *cough*… Fu.. *cough* *cough*… king clown!” It didn’t take long for Sir Lies-Alot to fall asleep next to the muddy puddle once more.
… “Sir Lies-Alot! Where is my steed? Sir Lies-Alot! Sir Lies-Alot!”
Startled once more Sir Lies-Alot awakens to find himself in a crawling position. Staring at the mud he was taken by ponderation. Un-able to grasp what was happening inside his head, Sir Lies-Alot falls un-conscious. Spinning and spinning his thoughts were… The plane of his mind forcing his ego out-of-orbit with each succeeding thought.
Seemed as if Coriolis was nonsensical and the laws of Physics non-existential where Sir Lies-Alot ended up next.
“Where. The. Hell. Am. I.?” Sir Lies-Alot was lost once more. He could not feel the cold ground on his knees no longer, neither could he see or smell that muddy puddle. Suddenly that fox shows up!
Sir Lies-Alot catches a glimpse of it but not enough make a shape out-of-it. The fox was too quick for his senses. Sir Lies-Alot hears a dripping and dropping of what he assumed were the grotto’s teardrops. He walks towards the sound of that dripping-and-dropping…
Stalactites and -mites surrounding the Sir’s presence. The drip-drop never seemed to stop or change with endearing approximation. “I blame that clown for all of this!” With a sullen fist he knocks over a stalacmite as long as a jousting spear he had with him before all this.
Where the hell was he going with all that anger and hatred for a jester? Un-certain it is, for Lies-Alot has it before knightship. Drip-drop-drip-drop… Sir Lies-Alot walks and walks.
The fox behind the knight never made a sound which would catch Sir Lies-Alot’s attention. Sir Lies-Alot was distracted with that sound of dripping-dropping, too distracted to notice he was going in circles in a dark cave.
Drip-drop-drip-drop… How long had he been walking for? And where the hell was he exactly?
He never finds the armoury he pitched… He never finds the fox… All he has are echoes in his mind — drip-drop-drip… Collapsed Sir Lies-Alot. Exhausted — too tired to even sigh. His last breath expires before he hits-the-ground.
Unfortunate was all that event. Sad was the knight before he fell.
Years later the grotto is found. “Was it years, months or weeks?” Pondered an individual standing across from dusty artifacts. That burden on the ground was curious. The individual was intrigued to find what-else lied in that dark grotto. Lying there by mud and filth a naked-pathetic-stinky corpse. “Sheesh… Get a load of that guy? Can’t hold his liquor!”