Author Topic: The Saga of Carveyfan: An Epic in Twelve Parts  (Read 1543 times)

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Offline DrThinker

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The Saga of Carveyfan: An Epic in Twelve Parts
« Reply #15 on: March 20, 2007, 02:27:41 PM »
Mind, if I join the "I WANT MORE" club, T.A.W.

Offline Turbo Barracuda

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The Saga of Carveyfan: An Epic in Twelve Parts
« Reply #16 on: March 21, 2007, 07:46:29 AM »
Me too!

Offline The 49th Ronin

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The Saga of Carveyfan: An Epic in Twelve Parts
« Reply #17 on: April 05, 2007, 06:06:32 PM »
Part 4: The Jester's Court

I hoisted my backpack as I walked down the corridor of Heathrow airport. My financial situation kept me in the European area, and my most recent trip required me to be sandwiched between two border collies kept in the cargo hold. Nice dogs, but they sure were frisky for being kept in a cage. Regardless, I got a free trip and smelled only minorly like dog feces.

After my last leg resulted in a mad dash run-around suitable more for Finder's Keepers, I decided my next trek shoud be one free of obstructions. There were three instances where visitors to the temple met with no obstructing temple guards, two glorious wins and one which must not be named. True, while the Iron Nose Ring of Babe was of the same calibre as the Helmet of Sir Gawain, but Minnesota isn't exactly high on the adventure connotation list, so it was off to England.

I hitchhiked my way to the small township of Berkinshire, where Wikipedia assured me that a castle existed. The castle stood looming, and a tour group was departing in five minutes, but I was a traveled adventurer, and I didn't need no stinkin' group. Also, I spent the last of my money on a raver hat with the Union Jack on it. I still say it was a sound purchase.

Tying a rope around a piece of rebar I found along the side of the road, I hurled it upwards toward the ramparts. I climbed up the wall to the roof, but there, I was greeted by something so strikingly devious it burned my eyes, and forever tatooed itself into my nightmares.

The man in black didn't turn around, even though he was aware of my presence. He knew who I was, why I was there, and what I was doing. He just didn't care. He just walked; Step left, step right, repeat all the way to his waiting helicopter emblazoned with the Viacom logo. He didn't think of me as a threat, he didn't even worry about me being capable of stopping him. He just proceeded to his awaiting chopper with the knight's helmet in hand.

The suits were on to me. They knew my plan and they were stopping me before fruition. I would just have to try that much harder.

I saw the display case inside the castle. It read: "Here is the helmet of the Welsch knight Gwalchmei. Many historians believe he was the figure on which the fictional character of Sir Gawain is based. Some beleive this helmet had magical powers, coveted by soothsayers and necromancers. But now it stands here as a relic personifying the battles of the English under William the Conquerer."

A newly administered plaque was inside the otherwise empty display case. It read: "This artifact has been acquired by Sumner Redstone, and is being relocated."

I made my way around each corridor. Up the north annex, down the south annex, into the throne room, behind each tapestry, under the dining hall tables, in the throne cushions, all while expertly outmanuevering the tour groups making the same five Monty Python and the Holy Grail jokes over and over again. Something surely resided in this castle, and if I had to blast myself back in time to the medeival period to find it, I would do so.

The day pressed on for hours. I was tired and losing daylight. I pulled a bottle of water from my backpack and took a drink while leaning against a wall. The water was warm, but I was hot and thirsty, and it felt good. Just like the breeze.

I had figured a several-hundred year old castle would be drafty, but this was like staring into an oscillating fan. There was wind coming from a small passage between the wall and ceiling, covered by a tapestry, and by no coincidence, this was surely where I was headed.

I made a stack of furniture, and removed the tapestry. The passage was only two feet by three feet, so I really had to cram my way in there. I squirmed up, taking a face full of cobwebs and dust, but after twenty minutes of squirming and three spider bites to the face, I found my way up.

It was a bedroom with a lone window and no door. The frame where the door remained had been filled with mortar and rock, blending seamlessly with the wall. The sheets on the canopied bed fluttered as the wind came through the window. A beautiful princess sat on the bed, waiting for her hero to come and rescue her, promising a lifetime of happiness and wealth after marriage.

... Yeah right. How cool would it be if that actually happened though?

Seriously, the skeleton of a dwarfed man sat arms folded on the bed. Based on his garish attire, and weird hat thing with the bells on the end he was obviously the king's jester. But why was he here, encased in this makeshift tomb?

The answered was scrawled on the closet door: "Here is the final resting place of Percival, loyal servant to the king and entertainer to all members of the court. He was encased in this room for disobedience to the magistrate after being caught with the youngest princess whilst under the cloak of a royal knight. Perhaps it was my lack of swordsmanship, my tomfoolery at the royal assembly, or the fact that I reach but the navel of a normal man, but my disguise was uncovered. As punishment, I have been imprisoned in my quarters, scratching the details of my final days into the closet door with a rock. Continued on other side."

I opened the closet and was greeted with an avalanche of mismatched, rusty and tarnished metals. Pushing them aside and hoping that I had enough white blood cells to stave off tetanus, I continued reading: "Continued from front. I have been doomed to be removed from history for sullying the royal bloodline. In the unlikely event that anyone reads these, my final words, take the armour which I wore. It was the last thing my true love touched before my encasement, and I believe it will bring true fortune to anyone who bears it. Yours in spirit, Percival."

Percival's a stupid name, but if this little man ensured me good fortune with an antiquated chestplate, I wasn't going to argue. It didn't fit me, but at least it wasn't as heavy as the stupid rock I've been carrying around. I only hope the rumors of Sir Gawain's helmet were truly fictional.

Continued in Part 5.