A Peek Behind the Curtain: An Early Look at the New Heloise Story

Calling all FOHAGs!

(What's a FOHAG? "Friend of Heloise and Grimple," of course, which you'd know if you'd read The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple--and if you haven't done that, your only possible excuse can be that your eyeballs are quite literally on fire, because it costs all of $2.99 and a portion of the proceeds go to benefit ProLiteracy.org; also, it is a transformative, seminal classic of the genre (that genre being the much-lauded comic fantasy genre in which the likes of even Michael Chabon, Jonathan Franzen, and Zadie Smith don't dare to tread for fear of being compared to me (though that's probably just because they worry about how it would besmirch their reputation to be mentioned in the same sentence as me, unless that sentence is something like, "Michael Chabon ran away from Sean Gibson because he (Sean) is a total lunatic, and, otherwise, the two have absolutely nothing in common, though both are male and appear to be white.").)

I digress.

FOHAGs, take note! I'm in the (very) early stages of a new Heloise story and wanted to share a taste of what's to come, though I reserve the right to drastically edit or delete the following section entirely when the work is complete (I also reserve the right to eat your cookies if you leave them alone, so I strongly recommend keeping them with you at all times, except, perhaps, when you visit the restroom, though that's really the time I'm most likely to strike, so consider yourself warned).

At any rate, please enjoy this very preliminary look at a story in progress! (Note: the adventure described herein predates the tale told in The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple.)

A CLASSIC BEGINNING…

Few are those who know the true terror of a furious dragon’s roar or the skin-blistering heat of its fiery breath. Few, for most who do know such things know them for but an instant before they are consumed by the dragon’s flame and turned ashen husks, burned beyond all hope of recognition.

Such was the horrible fate of so many who called the village of Skendrick home on the fateful day when the great red dragon Dragoria first arrived and painted the evening sky red and orange with searing gouts of fire, raining death upon them all, men, women, and children alike without distinction or hesitation, the tallest and smallest alike unable to withstand the dragon’s terrible fury.

A small girl huddled in the corner of her family’s home, a wooden structure little more than loose planks nailed together and covered with tarpaulin, shivering and shaking with fear, her hands clapped over her ears as she listened to the screams and wails of agony that knifed through the air and pierced her heart. Her mother must be among them, for the woman had gone to the market only an hour before, and her daughter knew that the dragon would strike there first, at the heart of the village, where most would be gathered. Market day happened once each week, and more than half the villagers gathered in the town’s central square to trade goods and gossip. A teeming mass of humanity conveniently clustered—an irresistible target for an angry, and insatiably hungry, dragon.

The girl cried and prayed, beseeching aid from gods she had never believed in but turned to now in desperation, hoping against hope that divine intervention might spare her life and, somehow, some way, bring back those who had died so horribly already.

But, her prayers went unheard, or at least unanswered, for it was only moments later that her own ramshackle dwelling was engulfed in flames, and the girl, clutching her most beloved doll, wailed in agony as hot tongues of fire kissed her feet and proceeded to consume her, leaving nothing behind but a bleached pile of bones and the ashen corpse of a blond doll.

The dragon left some alive that day, though—it would never kill them all, not when it wanted survivors to spread the word far and wide of what had happened that day, how the town had burned, how the people had suffered, and how no one could resist its awesome might. For then, perhaps, the forays into its territory would cease, the disturbances to its slumber would stop, and it could sleep, finally, in peace.

The great wyrm wheeled and turned overhead, leaving the smoking crater of the village behind as it flew north to its lair. It had no doubt that some hearty adventurers would come in the vain hope of righting this terrible wrong, but it would be ready.

And they would die in agony just as the villagers of Skendrick had died for daring to defy it.
 
…IS NOT NECESSARILY HOW IT ACTUALLY WENT DOWN

Being in the business of barding, one must not be bothered by blurting bull…excrement (though one should act excited about abusing alliteration).

Hi. My name’s Heloise, and I am, if not the most well-known bard in Erithea, arguably the most talented, and unarguably the cleverest (I wouldn’t argue if you suggested that I am also the most beautiful, but that’s just because I’m very agreeable). Consequently, I’m no stranger to telling a tall tale or two (and there I go with the alliteration again; I suppose it’s healthier than other habits I could adopt, such as shoving twigs from a Blinker tree into my eyes, which is less painful than it sounds—the twigs are so soft that they do little more than cause mild irritation, but they also pass along a hearty dose of bluridium, a drug that causes powerful hallucinations, generally involving very small, often naked blue sprites parading on (and sometimes through) one’s body…that’s okay once in a while if you’re into that sort of thing, but it can be very disruptive, so I’ll stick with alliteration).

Sometimes, though, it turns out to be the case that the unembellished version of a story is far more interesting than the tale the bards sing; it’s just rarely the case that bards know the truth behind the legend, and so the listening public misses out on something truly epic (or, at least, epically weird).

Fortunately for you, dear readers, it just so happens that not only do I know the truth about what happened that day in Skendrick and the subsequently shocking events, but I’ve decided to write that story down and share it with you (you’re welcome, incidentally).

I may not look it on account of being so stunningly beautiful (not my words, mind you—that’s how noted seer Llendarlin Wayfender once described me, and even though he’s blind, he is a venerated font of knowledge, so who am I to argue?), not to mention half-elven, but I’m approaching 140 years old, and I’ve had more than a few adventures in my time. I was sworn to secrecy regarding the true story of the great and terrible Dragoria, but recent (sad) events have released me from that promise, and so I’m free to tell the tale at long last.
I will warn you, though—those of you who think you know the story will scarcely believe the truth. You will be shocked, stunned, surprised, and staggered. The faint of heart should stop reading right now, close the book, and proceed to the nearest public garden or quiet pub to watch butterflies or enjoy a hoppy pint.

For those who have the stomach (and I realize I’m mixing my metaphors here, because it’s entirely possible to have a weak heart and a strong stomach, in which case I leave you to make the decision whether to proceed at your own peril, or, at least, on consultation with the nearest physician, witch doctor, or oracle), however, a tale the likes of which has never been told before, and is unlikely to be told again (well, at least not until I get paid to write another book, at any rate) awaits you.

So read on, brave souls…adventure awaits. And shenanigans. There will definitely be shenanigans.