The days dungeon crawl was bountiful, and the town was rewarding it’s hero’s in full. The celebration reached fanatical proportions. Sir Harold was bested by wine and wenches. He fell from the table, where he danced, face down on the floor.
Holding Sir Harold’s head up by his hair a cohort boasted. “If you had seen him this afternoon when we faced the litch. You would never have thought him to fall to a little harmless drink. And look at him now his adventure has only begun.”
(For our readers it is best to describe the litch as looking like David Bowie with bigger teeth, covered in oat meal and dusted with talc)
Sir Harold was unequivocally the strongest and the bravest of them all, but something had changed that day. It was Sir Harold’s sword thrust that slew the litch alright, but afterward he shook at how the litch’s gaze had reached his very soul.
Sir Harold instead of taking up a wench up in each arm, took up two flagons and refilled them each, as many times as he was old. His companions came to his aid, and dragged him to his room, tossing in a wench for good measure.
During the night he dreamt of the litch, and cried out for his companions to help.
“Shh, shh, shh.” The wench comforted him like a restless babe and pacified him with of a flagon of ale. Eventually, Sir Harold fell back asleep.
Just past the chattering of the morning birds Sir Harold woke, his head pulsed and the blood in his veins felt thick and slow. Standing, he staggered from his room seeking a relieving pot.
A wench in the hall screamed and ran at the sight of him. His skin was pale and had a milky green tinge to it.
Bracing himself on the wall he went down the stairs to the drinking hall.
His companions, already awake, had started the celebrations a new.
When they saw him the cleric of the party cried out. “The lich! Pin him least we be turned to undead!”
Sir Harold thinking that his companions had gone mad fought a valiant fight. He struggled with the strength of ten hungover college students, but in the end he was no match for an entire bar of bare breasted wenches and his fellow adventurers.
“Bring me my holy raiment!” The cleric prayed. He tried all of his potions and spells but nothing worked. Sir Harold raged and grew stronger.
“We can’t hold him.” A companion feared. “We must flee!”
“If we do. All will be lost.” Replied the Cleric.
“Here!” A voice from the kitchen came. “Here brave Cleric. This is sure to drive any demon out!”
The cook held a clear flask of red liquid. He tossed it to the cleric. “Pour it on his historians.” The cook pointed downward, and so the cleric did.
A mighty roar could be heard in the next town over, and some say that the cows stopped giving milk that day. Sir Harold was cured.
Cookies Sure Fire Elixir Of Demon Removal
8 Tomatoes Chopped
A splash of vinegar and a mince of garlic
One bunch cilantro washed stemmed and chopped
One half a medium yellow onion diced small or one small one for simplicity
One habanero minced
Salt to taste
Mix all the above together and prepare to exercise.