A starry sky blanketed the warm summer night. The fire crackled—approvingly, almost smugly. Even the flames tickled the air with a slow, deliberate grace.

  Narro and Reralt sat beside the fire. They had just eaten a rabbit—shot by Reralt, though he’d been aiming at a deer.

  Narro, ever the dessert type, was eating something else entirely: a thick, white, sour sludge that offended Reralt’s every heroic instinct.

  “Yugh,” Reralt said, recoiling. “You do know where yuck-grub comes from?”

  The words lingered long enough to leave a scent of revulsion in the air. Narro felt it. Deeply.

  He stirred his bowl—a few strawberries and berries added to dull the tang—then looked up.

  Reralt was still watching, face twisted like he’d seen a demon milk a goat.

  “Please,” Narro said, sitting a bit straighter. He loaded his spoon with a trembling mound of the stuff. “Do tell.”

  Reralt shuddered.

  ***

  “Long ago,” Reralt began solemnly, “in a time when heroes were less good-looking and peasants even poorer…”

  Narro blinked. Slowly. Regretfully. He judged himself more harshly with each passing second for allowing this story to happen.

  “There was a maiden,” Reralt continued, eyes distant. “Striking as a female Reralt—blonde curls, freckles, just the right height to help oil a strong, silver-haired male.”

  He paused reverently. “Reralt loves freckles.”

  A deep sigh escaped Narro’s soul. He had made this bed. Now he had to lie in it. Possibly forever.

  “The maiden,” Reralt said, “beautiful as she was—was ravingly mad. A muscular, monster-slaying, terribly handsome man—some say nearly as handsome as Reralt himself—wanted her.”

  He paused, giving Narro a chance to fully grasp how handsome that truly was.

  “He wanted her for… I don’t know. Cooking? Or oiling, maybe.”

  Narro snorted.

  “The reason,” Reralt admitted, “was never made entirely clear to me.”

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  “But she refused,” he continued, affronted. “For no good reason at all. So they had to put her in with the beasts and hope she eventually came to her senses.”

  “There, in the beast shed—they also store milk there, apparently—something strange happened.”

  Reralt lowered his voice, leaning in as if preparing to reveal a great and ancient magical truth.

  “The maiden,” he whispered, “startled by a magical chandelier—which had, quite suddenly, begun to speak—placed her hand into one of the milk barrels.”

  Narro, surprisingly entertained by this Beauty and the Yeast tale, raised an eyebrow.

  “What did the chandelier say?”

  Reralt, clearly annoyed by the interruption of his epic, replied sharply:

  “It said, ‘If you, oh fair maiden, ever disrupt a story again, I shall burn you by slamming your head into the fire until it smells like bacon.’”

  “Noted,” Narro said. “Please continue.”

  “So—startled by a magical chandelier—she plunged her hand into a barrel of milk,” Reralt continued, voice hushed with ominous gravity.

  “The next day… the milk had changed.”

  He paused for effect.

  “It had become this thick, sour paste. Not at all tasty. The sweet, noble milk—tainted. Corrupted by the maiden’s madness.”

  “As she had nothing else to eat,” Reralt continued gravely, “she had to consume the yuck-grub. The madness of the fair maiden grew… until she married a beast. Or something.”

  He popped a strawberry into his mouth, savoring it like a victory.

  “That’s why,” he added, pointing at Narro’s bowl, “whenever someone eats this yuck-grub, their face twists—as if they remember the maiden who lost her mind.”

  Reralt paused. His expression shifted—briefly—into something resembling thought. A crease formed above his brow.

  “The end,” he declared suddenly, standing up to receive his applause.

  “Bravo,” Narro said, clapping politely.

  Anything to make the large, naked man sit back down and pull the blanket over himself again.

  ***

  Reralt, pleased by the applause—though it was a bit short for his taste—sat down again.

  He watched Narro curiously as the bard scraped the last of his yoghurt from the bowl.

  “Did you not hear the tale?” Reralt asked, genuinely confused. “Should I start again?”

  Narro froze. He looked at the yoghurt. Then at Reralt.

  His mind scrambled for an acceptable answer—one that would spare him a second retelling.

  With Reralt, no story was ever the same twice, and being confused halfway through was considered a personal insult.

  “I… I am poor,” Narro said at last.

  Reralt nodded solemnly.

  “Of course,” he murmured, pity thick in his voice.

  Editor’s note (also the writer, unfortunately): Yes, we know yoghurt isn’t made with yeast. But let’s be honest — “Beauty and the Lactobacillus” doesn’t exactly sing, and Reralt wouldn’t be able to pronounce it anyway.

  Besides, “Beauty and the Yeast” made us laugh — and laughter over scientific precision is enough.

  The Sumplementarillion