Reralt had fallen asleep in a mead-induced stupor. It wouldn’t last long—Narro knew that much.

  Which meant he had a small, precious window of quiet.

  A rare chance to steer the quest with a bit less chaos, and a bit more control.

  Poor Narro.

  “Tell us about the Darkest One… ehh, Bear Man?” he asked.

  They’d never asked his name. Reralt had simply decided Man-Bear was adequate—and that had been that.

  The bear pointed a claw toward a framed certificate on the wall.

  “Pooh,” he said simply.

  The parchment read:

  Master Brewer

  Pooh Irgencious of Greywald

  (also known as Man-Bear)

  Narro squinted at the delicate script.

  It looked as if it had been scribbled by a very large, very uncoordinated hand.

  Ink stains splattered the entire thing like a miniature battlefield.

  “Well,” he said, “pleasure to meet you properly, Master Pooh.”

  The bear nodded solemnly and poured more tea.

  “Could you tell us more about this Darkest One?” Narro asked.

  Reralt snored loudly—mouth wide open, a line of drool trickling down one side.

  Every few minutes, he startled awake, took another sip, and promptly dozed off again.

  “Of course,” Pooh said. “Although I don’t know much more. Just that every few days, some rambling idiot shows up—with blood on his mind and violence in his heart.”

  They both looked at Reralt.

  “I get the confusion,” Narro said.

  Pooh took out an ornate pipe, stuffed it with a greenish herb, lit it, and sank deep into his couch.

  The air slowly filled with a rich, spiced aroma—prickling Narro’s nostrils, lifting his mind, and making him pleasantly drowsy.

  He took a deliberate, deep sniff and felt... content.

  “They come from where the sun rises,” Pooh said after a while. “I’ve heard of a mage tower there.”

  Then, after another long pull on the pipe:

  “Will you please defeat this…” —he searched for the word.

  Panic struck Narro immediately. Please don’t say it, he thought.

  But he was too late.

  “Evil sorcerer?”

  A tear slid down Narro’s cheek just as chaos incarnate jolted upright in righteous fury.

  Reralt had a sixth sense for that phrase.

  He called it: Hero Tickles.

  He seemed clear as day—none of his behavior hinted at the drunken stupor that had possessed him just seconds earlier.

  Then again, when the crazy came, everything else came second.

  “Of course!” he bellowed, taking three heroic strides to the center of the room.

  “Defeating evil sorcerers is our specialty!”

  He struck a pose—mid-hero style—the one where he stood on an illusionary barrel, one hand on his hip, the other on his imaginary sword belt.

  “Let’s go, Narro!” he shouted, already three steps toward the door. “Evil is to be slewn. Slayn. Defeated!”

  “Ahh,” Pooh said softly, watching him go.

  “That Reralt… the one from the ballads. Thought he was taller.”

  Narro slumped after him, dragging his feet with quiet resignation.

  He gave the man-bear a look full of betrayal and sorrow—

  the unmistakable look of a defeated bard.

  ***

  Reralt was already on his horse and moving by the time Narro mounted.

  “Reralt, where the sun rises!” Narro yelled after him.

  Reralt turned and gave him a look—as if Narro had just said something profoundly stupid.

  Then he pulled the reins and circled back. “Just warming up the horse. No need to shout.”

  On the road, the mead Reralt had consumed was clearly catching up with him. He was slumped over his saddle, groaning.

  “That bear must’ve been the worst brewer ever,” he muttered. “Even my iron stomach is upset. Narro.”

  The usual complaints, farts, and burps were all over the place. Narro threw him a small bottle of mint to chew on.

  After a few minutes, that usually helped.

  There was a pause.

  “And I see tiny ninjas.”

  Narro blinked. That one was new.

  He turned in the saddle and looked behind them.

  After a long moment, he caught a glimpse—just for a second—of a small figure in black, riding what looked like a large, slinking weasel.

  He stared.

  Then he laughed—it looked absurd. The weasel’s tiny feet were pumping like mad, yet the ninja on top of it hardly moved at all.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Should’ve taken a rabbit!” Narro yelled back at him. “Or a dog!”

  The ninja, for some reason, seemed offended by that.

  It offered an obscene gesture.

  Which somehow looked even more ridiculous.

  Narro couldn’t hold it in—he laughed straight at the little gnome.

  Now deeply offended.

  That Narro was one hundred percent right, did not help.

  ***

  Behind them, riding low on her little weasel, Gnomum stared at the tall people with burning eyes.

  “You killed my father,” she whispered—hate bubbling in every syllable.

  “You killed my mother.”

  She was dressed in black from head to toe, just like the ninjas she’d read about.

  None of the books had mentioned it only worked well at night.

  The ceremonial pointy hat did her no good.

  All black, it stood out against the forest green like—well—a black hat.

  It kept getting caught in bushes, so with one hand she had to yank it free every few seconds.

  “You killed my uncle…” She paused. Tilted her head. Yanked the hat free from a twig that had snagged it.

  “The one who always showed up to parties without a gift. So… that’s actually a plus.”

  The weasel beneath her ran as fast as its tiny legs could carry it.

  Compared to the thunder of galloping horses, it sounded like a marching band with one overzealous drummer boy.

  She had made a pledge—the morning the acorn fell.

  A day forever marked in the gnome books as a Black Day.

  Sworn by sacred oath. Sworn to revenge.

  She had chosen poison.

  She would kill them with poison—all of them. Including the horses.

  Gnomes were always treasured for their unique view of nature—

  The view that states: “If it ain’t a gnome—kill it, burn it, destroy it.”

  Gnomes are dicks.

  Decent assassins, but no one ever had one over for tea and cookies.

  They’d spit the tea in your face for being inferior, and steal the cookies because they felt entitled to all of them.

  Not that anyone ever invited them for tea.

  People wondered where those stories came from.

  The weasel, despite its best efforts, couldn’t keep up.

  Gnomum watched the tall men grow smaller in the distance—getting away, further and further.

  “Nooooo!” she screamed, in the gnomish extreme high-pitched voice.

  It sounded like a rabbit’s fart on helium.

  The last thing she heard was the faint, distant sound of laughter.

  Disrespectful. Tall. Mocking.

  As always.

  ***

  It took them all morning—and most of the midday.

  Reralt having to stop every five minutes to relieve his stomach cramps was not doing their schedule any favors.

  Each time he returned, he gave an update: “it reeked of honey and herbs, and had taken on a distinct brownish color.”

  Narro, already regretting asking, finally gave in and asked why he was inspecting his own stool.

  “It’s the best way to detect enchantments or curses,” Reralt said, using that voice—

  The one he used when he thought he was teaching Narro something useful.

  Whenever Narro heard that voice, he just tuned out and nodded every few seconds.

  It was safer that way.

  His sanity already had enough to endure.

  Up ahead, the tower rose.

  At first just a crooked spire in the distance—then, with every step, it seemed to grow taller.

  Now they stood at its base.

  They counted at least eight windows before the roof began.

  Reralt was in a better mood—the cramps were starting to fade.

  Narro was in a better mood—the gas had mostly subsided.

  He could even hear birds returning to the area, though they still kept a respectful distance.

  Narro unmounted and walked a lap around the tower.

  It wasn’t very wide. Within two minutes, he was back where he started.

  Reralt stood readying his sword. Narro saw him mouthing something—

  Practicing lines, no doubt.

  He hoped he wouldn’t be there when Reralt actually used them.

  They were even worse than usual.

  “Taste this sword, enchantress. Now chew on the hard parts.”

  Reralt nodded in approval and marked a tiny check in his little notebook.

  “No door,” Narro informed him.

  Reralt pointed at a window.

  Narro exhaled. Twice.

  Then a third time, longer.

  Reralt crouched under the window, hands together, forming a little footstool.

  “He’s going to throw me,” Narro said to no one.

  Then exhaled once more.

  “Well... let’s get this over with.”

  He took out Mary Syril, said a quiet prayer to her, and stepped toward Reralt.

  ***

  Reralt was enjoying himself immensely—checking wind speed, gauging angles, and muttering calculations that made absolutely no sense.

  He nodded with confidence. “I am ready,” he said, grinning at Narro like a child about to break something valuable.

  Narro stood stiff with nerves. “So again. I go into the window, tie the rope so you can climb up. If there’s someone—or something—there, I jump back down and you catch me.”

  Reralt wasn’t listening. At all.

  Narro tapped him on the shoulder to recapture his attention.

  Unfortunately, Reralt took it as the go-signal they had absolutely never agreed on.

  Narro soared through the air—precisely how they had not planned it.

  The tower drifted farther away in his vision.

  The ground, on the other hand, got very close, very fast.

  He crashed through a flowerbed and landed in what seemed to be a cellar room—flat, bruised, and full of regret.

  “Hey, you found the entrance!” Reralt called out cheerfully, stepping over Narro’s pained, sprawled body like he was admiring his own cleverness.

  “Where is that gnome when you need her?” Narro muttered.

  They rode off laughing, proud and tall,

  While I, unseen, began to crawl.

  My weasel swift, my dagger true,

  My vengeance dark, my hatred grew.

  They crushed my kin with sword and boot,

  Then mocked our hats—how resolute.

  They scorned our pose, our pointy flair,

  So now I strike with steely glare.

  I'll curse their soup, I’ll haunt their steed,

  Their horses too shall choke and bleed.

  Let no tall man escape my snare—

  For I am Gnomum. I was there.

  As always, thanks for reading.

  might drop the conclusion on Tuesday, which means Thursday could bring you something... fluffier.

  A new Supplementarillion—possibly involving a soaked gnome and a rabbit.

  (You’ve been warned.)

  1,000 views, with a loyal 40-reader squad. After only three weeks online, the story is being shared by you—I just post them.

  Honestly—thank you. Truly.