text: [Themes: fantasy]
  
  Few sights are as cheery as the warm light of an inn on a moonless night, especially when the winds are coming strong from the north and biting at your skin with icy teeth. You plod straight through the muck and dirty puddles, eager to rest before another day of wearying travel. The oaken door is heavy, but a mountain could not stop you, this close to warmth.
  
  You are not disappointed. The inn is crowded with people of every shape and size. Farmers from the nearby village mix with black-robed monks from the abbey. Children dart here and there, laughing at the drunk and sodden men that lie senseless in their ale. A handful of scraggly travelers warm themselves by the enormous fire, swapping rumors and tearing into black bread. You take a seat alongside them, nodding a welcome but with eyes only for the flames. Only after you can once again feel your hands and feet does your hunger return. The barman is a squat fellow, red bearded and seemingly fond of shouting. He takes your coins and shoves a bowl of thick stew towards you. "Welcome," he shouts, "to the Red Lion!"
  
  The man to your left strikes up a conversation about your destination, and soon the two of you are chatting away while you forget the miles ahead tomorrow. Suddenly the room goes silent, no small feat. Even the barman has ceased bellowing to his sons. All eyes are fixed upon the bard who has just stood, lute in hand, on a central table. He is a curious, almost comical figure, with arms and legs just slightly too long for his body and a shock of white hair that cascades down his shoulders like a waterfall. His voice, however, is low and clear, and it is not hard to see why all await the performance so eagerly. The bard strums a few notes, coughs twice, and begins his tale.
  
  A hundred years ago or more
  
  When good king Freolaf did rule
  
  The realm knew peace and never war.
  
  His son, the Prince, was never cruel
  
  The worthy son, Prince Reginald.
  
  He had a daughter, too, a jewel
  
  The Lady Jane, but twelve years old.
  
  Our Prince did love his sister sweet
  
  Their bond was joyous to behold.
  
  But danger came on swiftest feet
  
  From that old fiend, that devilish man
  
  Cantaphrax, the Lord of Heat
  
  Whose crimes, if I the list began
  
  Would stretch from here right to the Moon!
  
  The demons of the fiery clan
  
  All paid him homage, danced his tune.
  
  He summoned flames with just a wink
  
  Brighter than the Sun at noon.
  
  Upon a plan the Mage did think
  
  To win the power he'd long sought
  
  From spells in books with fading ink.
  
  The scheme was this: send demons hot
  
  To steal the Lady Jane away
  
  > And cast her in a pit to rot
  Then he would come with foul intent
  
  To rescue her and make her think
  
  He was an old and kindly gent.
  
  From there the Mage would worm and wink
  
  With all his slimy magic skill
  
  Until her sovereign mind would sink
  
  Beneath his domineering will.
  
  So quick as lightening conjured he
  
  A dreadful Dragon trained to kill.
  
  From there the plan went perfectly
  
  The Lady Jane was caught and then
  
  Old Cantaphrax emerged to free
  
  Her from the wicked Wyrm again.
  
  He spoke to her with words most kind
  
  And being little more than ten
  
  She trusted him and so was blind.
  
  But then the Lady Jane did ask
  
  The Mage if he would help her find
  
  Her castle home and to this task
  
  He was most happy to assist.
  
  A pinch of powder from his flask
  
  And magic words he did enlist
  
  To bring them in an instant to
  
  The castle walls rising through mist.
  
  She thanked him and her feeling grew
  
  So that she thought him best of men
  
  > And with him to her father flew
  The King was glad indeed to see
  
  His daughter back and thanked the Mage
  
  Not knowing his identity.
  
  But Cantaphrax in his old age
  
  Appeared a wise and noble gent
  
  And since the castle lacked a sage
  
  The king asked if he would consent
  
  To stay and serve the royal court.
  
  The offer would his plan augment
  
  And make his scheme harder to thwart
  
  So Cantaphrax did take the job-
  
  He was a quick and scheming sort-
  
  The Lady Jane did nearly sob
  
  With joy to see her savior stay.
  
  By this time there had formed a mob
  
  Of peasant folk with faces grey
  
  That sought the Wizard's help with all
  
  Their problems that had brought dismay.
  
  When Cantaphrax observed the sprawl
  
  Of beggars hoping for his aid
  
  > He spat on them and was appalled.
  Was he, the greatest sorcerer
  
  Alive to serve this rabble? No!
  
  These filthy, lowly peasants were
  
  Beneath his notice, far below!
  
  The crowd was furious and shocked
  
  And Lady Jane could hardly know
  
  Why Cantaphrax at helping balked.
  
  Then suddenly a rock was thrown-
  
  At that the gates of rage unlocked.
  
  The peasants hurled stone and stone
  
  Toward his arrogant, old head!
  
  Against the tide he fought alone
  
  But from his many wounds he bled
  
  And though his magic felled a few
  
  The Mage was quickly beaten dead.
  
  Now listen, you, and you and you
  
  To what his death makes clear to me.
  
  The moral of the tale, it's true
  
  Is never to regard with glee
  
  Yourself and think you better than
  
  The rest- I'm sure you will agree.
  
  > And so the bard ends his tale.
  The inn erupts into cheers as the bard bows and disappears from view. All around the farms nod and laugh at their liege lords' pretensions. Even the monks smirk at their abbot, who has launched into a lecture on the many virtues of obedience to one's natural superiors. You join in the fun, having known more than enough idiotic and arrogant nobles in your time. The abbot eventually denounces you all as seditious and ungodly, which only brings on more laughter.
  
  A few hours of such talk and you make your way upstairs and into a room. As you drift off to sleep you wonder idly about this strange world, where some men are born superior and other to work in the mud. If those peasants could kill the great wizard Cantaphrax, why not the men in this inn? Maybe someday the whole system will come crashing down, replaced by God knows what. The next morning you leave, never to return to the tavern or see anyone in it again. You do, however, meet many more farmers and monks and travelers, all eager to hear of the time their kind triumphed over one of their betters.