After several joyous hours of gorging and wining, my face had turned purple and my waistline was thrice its usual size. I was staggering around the bonfire trying to find somewhere to wee, but every dark corner was occupied by lecherous couples engaged in rampant canoodling and/or unbridled fondling. Eventually I decided there was nothing else for it and whizzed in a pair of old boots I found under a bench.
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We spent the next evening in the wizard’s clearing, figuring that we’d already been doomed once so what the hell difference did it make. The next morning we set out early after a breakfast of delicious sausages (which Margaret did not approve of one bit) and an entire wheel of cheese, which we devoured in about fifteen minutes and had us all gaseous and bloated for the whole morning on the woodland trail.
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I don’t know how long I was unconscious for; all I know is that I was brought back around by a hand plunging into the snow, fingers outstretched and grasping. The probing hand happened upon my regal face, and as it prodded my buried flesh, I heard excited yells coming from above ground. The fingers gripped my face by the nostrils and hauled me up through the snow, slowly and painfully excavating me, inch by inch, and the wrenching agony wasn’t helped by the fact that the mead had worn off and I was now deathly hungover.
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It turned out that the prince’s home city of Bloodroot was far, far away, because nothing is ever easy. To reach his castle, we would have to traverse the Klinghorn Mountains, plot a course through the Goochi Desert, navigate the gloom of the Mines of Mupplecock, and cross the Sea of Pìss (pronounced peace).
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