The Felloship of the 69 Rings: Chapter 1

“My name is Dawson Ehlke, and I want to be a knight!”
         This statement was met with cacophonous guffaws from everyone in the tavern.
         Dawson frowned.  No, he scowled.  Why were they laughing at him?  Had he said something humorous?  What was the big idea!?  Even the barmaids stopped in their tracks to stare at him with incredulous smirks that made Dawson’s face turn red.  He looked to his right at the grizzled old man he had been talking to for the past few minutes to ask for his input, but Dawson saw that he too was cracking up!
         “Hey!  What’s so funny!?  I demand to know what is so funny!” Dawson exclaimed.
         The old man wiped his eyes hastily and tried to regain his composure.  With a few repercussions of uncontainable giggles, he met the gaze of the sour faced, cross-armed, would-be knight Dawson Ehlke and cleared his throat.
         “Well now—heehee—why would you be wanting to be a knight, my boy?”
         That was an easy question.  From deep within his heart, Dawson summoned the most valiant smile he had ever put on.
         “I dream of being a hero, of course!  I wish to travel the land; slaying dragons, rescuing damsels, serving the poor and oppressed, and vanquishing evil like it’s just another day at the office!”
         More laughter.  Increasingly flustered, Dawson shook his head in frustration and embarrassment.
         “But of course that is why,” the old man chided, doing his best not to lose control of himself.  “But tell us, lad—where do you come from?  Who are you?  And why are you here, in this humble tavern?”
         “Oh… well,” Dawson began.  Truthfully, he hadn’t been prepared for those questions.  Not that they were difficult to answer of course.  “Well, as I said, I am Dawson Ehlke.  I come from a land far to the north, the provincial fief of Minas Ota and the village of Fosstown.  All my life it has been my dream to leave my secluded home and explore the world—and to become a gallant knight!  I was a peasant, yes, if you wish to know, and I am unashamed of that fact for it has made me the man of character I am today!  And I came to this inn because I was told there is a man here who could tell me how to become a knight.  A wise wizard, by the name of Ganondalf.”
         The entire building drew silent.  Which was a nice change, Dawson noted.  But he didn’t understand the reason for it.  Startled, mystified stares bore into him, and it felt rather uncomfortable. Dawson almost preferred the laughter.  Then he heard the familiar sound of a throat being cleared, and he turned to the little old man on the barstool.
         “Ahem.  Speaking…”
         Dawson never noticed the silent grins emerge on the faces of all the tavern patrons.
         Of course!  How could he have not known right away?  The old man had the look:  gray, grizzled beard, long pointy hat, curly toed shoes—his robe did seem a little short but then again, so was the man himself.  And who was Dawson to judge on that?  He only stood 4’11 himself after all.  Why, Dawson was just so happy he had found him and with so little trouble, that he wanted to give him a hug!  But fortunately for all involved, he didn’t.
         “Master Ganondalf!  Why, I am so pleased to see you!  Forgive me for not treating you with the proper respect you undoubtedly deserve, but please, I am so anxious… how can I become a knight?”
         “Oho!  Such an ambitious young man—and indeed, that is the key!  Tell me, do you have the will in your heart to do whatever it takes to achieve this goal of becoming a knight?”
         “Oh yes!  Yes!  I will do absolutely anything!” Dawson pleaded.
         “Well you can’t.  It’s impossible.”
         Dawson’s jaw dropped.  “Wait…what?  Impossible!?  NO!  That’s not right!”
         “Unless… well… Hmmm……” Ganondalf trailed off, appearing deep in thought.
         “What?  Unless what?” encouraged Dawson.  This had to work.
         “…Well…… No.  No, you’re right, it’s impossible,” declared Ganondalf while nodding conclusively.
         “No—no, no, this can’t be…!  I—I….”
         Dawson broke out into tears.  Yes, right in front of everyone in the tavern.  He sobbed and sobbed.
        Many of the costumers had actually been getting into the conversation between Dawson and the old man, and now that it had ended like this, they were disappointed.
        “Oi, come on now ‘Ganondalf’!  You broke the poor lad’s heart!” one of the patrons called.
        More chimed in.  “Yeah ‘Ganondalf’, give the kid a chance!”  Soon all were chorusing in general assent that the old man should not let all of the lad’s hopes and dreams die here and there and then.
        Dawson sniffled and wiped his bleary eyes, and looked up at the crowd that was cheering and chanting his name.  Huh?  They were being nice.  Or looked like it anyway.  Then suddenly, one voice rose louder than all the others.
        “Give ‘im a quest!”
        The crowd drew silent again.  Dawson glanced about curiously to see who had spoken, but soon forgot about it and looked to Ganondalf with a raised eyebrow.  Quest?
        A strange twinkle suddenly appeared in Ganondalf’s left eye.  With a thoughtful glance at the ceiling, he rubbed his chin and spoke.  “Well, now that it’s been mentioned, I suppose there is a way for you to become a knight.”
        Dawson almost started crying again out of sheer joy.  “WHAT?” he cried.
        “There is one way— one way for you to achieve what you desire.”
        “HOW?”
        “You must…” Ganondalf trailed off.  His voice was low, ominous, and mystical.  With every word, Dawson’s eyes grew wider and wider, and he bit his fingernails harder and harder.  Now was the moment he had been waiting for all his life.  Well, besides actually becoming a knight.  Everyone in the tavern was leaning forward now too, as curious and anxious as Dawson to hear what Ganondalf was going to say.  The wizard continued.  “You must… take on a quest!”
        “OH MY GOD—Wait, what?  A quest?  That doesn’t sound bad.  In fact I’m already on a quest!”
        “Oh you are?” Ganondalf asked, raising eyebrow.
        “Why of course!  A quest to become a knight!”
        Ganondalf slapped his forehead.  “Right, yes, of course, stupid boy—Ahem, anyway!  Yes, of course you are my lad.  But now you must forego that and start a new quest.  A quest that, when completed, will entitle you as a true Knight of the Realm!”
         “Oh I will!  I will!  What is it?  I will do anything!” Dawson pleaded, and pleaded.
         “Yes, yes, there is something you can do.  A dangerous quest; one that has been undertaken time and time again by many would-be knights and heroes in search of honor, valor, and glory.  None, however, have prevailed.  All who are known to have tried have either given up in humiliating frustration, or perished.  Tell me, young one; have you ever heard the Legend of the Sixty-Nine Rings?”
         The crowd gasped.
         “No.  What is it?”
        The crowd gasped again.
         “You HAVEN’T heard—I mean—yes, err, ahem:  How have you not heard the Legend of the Sixty-Nine Rings?” asked a dumfounded Ganondalf.
         “I dunno.  How am I supposed to know how I don’t know something?”
         “I, err…” Ganondalf faltered, a response previously on the tip of his tongue suddenly vanishing into the verbal void.  “Well, I don’t know.  I suppose I must tell you the story then.”
         As the wizard Ganondalf cleared his throat, all the tavern patrons, the barmaid, and even the bartender shuffled in close to listen.
        “A long time ago, in a land many miles south of here, lived a young apprentice silversmith by the name of Fit Fiddlesworth.  One day, Fit’s master Orolf received a most peculiar order from a mysterious, hermit Wizard, known only to folk by the name of ‘T.’.”
         “Hold on,” Dawson interrupted.  “How come you capitalized the W on Wizard when referring to Mr. T., but you did not just two paragraphs ago when referring to yourself?”
         “Proper nouns boy, proper nouns!  If something is important, you capitalize it.  ‘T.’ is a Wizard, whereas I am only a wizard.  Now look at us, we’re all off track—where was I?  Ah yes, a Wizard known as T.
         “T. sent an order by letter to the Master Silversmith Orolf, requesting a batch of seventy simple, silver bands; to be made of the finest silver available.  If they could be completed and delivered to the addressed location in no greater than three days, the Wizard T. would pay a remarkably handsome fee for it.  Without delay, Orolf the smith and his apprentice Fit started straightaway.
         “As the story goes, the smith and his apprentice worked tirelessly and without ceasing until the job was completed.  However, the final ring turned out crude and impure at the hands of the weary smith.  Still, Orolf packed it with the others in a plain, unassuming jewelry box.  On the third day, when the order was to be delivered, it was Orolf the Smith’s wedding anniversary.  So he tasked young Fit with the task of transporting the rings to the Wizard T.
         “Now in front of the Wizard’s cottage was small pool.  It was a pretty, scenic thing, with an undisturbed surface like that of a mirror.  Across it was a bridge.  Fit, being a poor, attention-deficit child, decided it would be fun to cross said bridge on his way to T.’s door.  So, with jewelry box in hand, young Fit gleefully frolicked up the arcing slope of the bridge.
         “Alas, the poor lad tripped.  The box flew out of his hands, opening in mid-air and spilling all of its contents into the pool.  The horrified boy watched in horror as the water’s surface shattered like glass, and a brilliant column of purple light shot into the sky with a tremendous, earth-shattering roar!  Fit could not move, and was engulfed in the magical beam.  This transcendent explosion of unimaginable meaning disappeared only moments after it began, and all that was left beneath the bridge was a pebbled basin, empty—apart from the jewelry box, and the one, crude ring.  Fit also vanished with the blaze, and was never seen again.
         “That night, many astronomers and astrologers were astounded when an astounding array of shooting stars flashed across the sky and careened onto the planet’s surface.  Can you guess how many they counted?  Yes my boy!  Sixty-Nine.  It wasn’t until later that word spread on what actually caused the event, and already many adventurers had gone out seeking fallen stars.
         “Today, the rings are lost.  Some have been unwittingly found and picked up by people, while others remain hidden in unknown locations around the globe.  All that is known about them is that each one has an individual and unique power that it bestows upon the wearer, and they are easily recognized by their simple, silver shapes.  Easily recognized, yes.  Not so easily found."
         “So there you have it, my boy!  The Tale of the Sixty-Nine rings.  Anyone who can find all sixty-nine of them will not only have immeasurable, innumerable, unimaginable power, but they will also be deemed worthy to receive anything they wished.  Why, I daresay, they would certainly be worthy enough to be granted something as trivial as knighthood.  So!  How do you feel?”
         Dawson shrugged.  “That sounds boring.  Are there any other quests?”
         “Yes, yes—WHAT!?  Other quests—NO!!  I mean, no.  There are none that could make you a knight.”  The grizzled old man in the short robe did his best to calm himself.  One does not simply tell a story of that size to have nothing come of it.
         Dawson puffed out his chest.  “Well, if that is what it takes to achieve what I dream, then I will not rest until I have found every last ring and put them on my fingers!!  I will climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest ocean, run the longest mile!  Nothing can stop me!  You just wait Master Ganondalf, you’ll see!”  Beaming larger than ever he had in his life, Dawson would have jumped off his stool right there and sped for the doorway and started off—but a thought struck him. 
“Err, Master Ganondalf?  Where do I start?”
         “My boy,” answered Ganondalf with a sly smile, “I am glad you asked.  Bartender, fetch me and the lad a pint of mead, on me!”
         “I don’t drink, sir.”
         “An orange juice then!  Yes, yes, no, not for me too, idiot!  I’ll take the mead, give that to the boy!  Ah, yes, good.  Now, the first step that any adventurer must take before beginning his quest is definitely the most important.”  Ganondalf took a sip of his mead, and Dawson downed his orange juice.  Considering that the kind gentlemen was paying for it, Dawson took the liberty of helping himself to as much as he pleased.  The crowd, still surrounding the duo, eagerly settled in.
         “You must assemble a party!”
         Dawson laughed out loud.  “You jest!  Why, surely it isn’t really the most important part!  Well, I suppose it is crucial and I certainly wouldn’t want to miss it, especially if it was my own, but it would take too long to get organized…”
         While Dawson prattled on about why he didn’t feel a going-away party was necessary, Ganondalf buried his head in his hands and silently shook his head, slowly, from side to side.
         “…and I don’t have many friends around these parts, yet, that is, and— I say, Master Ganondalf?  Is something the matter?”
         “Yes, yes… No, no, of course not.  My dear boy, what I mean when I say party is not a festive gathering or celebration.  It’s a team!  Your group, your squadron; your party!  Only the foolish, fool-hardy adventurer goes off on a quest on his own!  Teamwork is essential!  Another shoulder to pat, to lean on, to cry on!  One who will watch your back and share your burden.  What you need, is…”  Ganondalf paused, searching for the best word.  A dramatic word.
         “A Fellowship!” he cried.
         Caught up in the moment, the crowd cheered and clapped.  Dawson bounced up and down on his bar-stool, clapping his hands and giggling, nearly spilling his third glass of orange juice.  Ganondalf casually motioned for them to be silent.
         “But who will it be?  And how many do I need?” asked Dawson, excitement swelling up inside him in greater and greater quantities with every passing moment.
         “Why, as many as you want!  But there are, of course, practical elements involved.  Such as how long it would take to move about if you’ve got a whole army with you, arguments that might start up, too great a division of booty— those sorts of political things.  There are some things that are musts, however.  So first:  By the looks of you, I would say that you are of the warrior class?  That is to say, your preferred weapon is a sword, or mace, or something else that involves hacking and slashing?  And you wear armor; whether you prefer ‘light’ or ‘heavy’ is not necessary information at the time, but I digress.  You are most likely not familiar with magic?  My dear boy do nod at least ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as I ask you these things.  So, no magic then.  And have you ever thrown a knife, sniffed a trail, foraged for herbs, or, dare I say, shot a bow?  No, no, and no?  Perfect.”
         “Why is that perfect, Master Ganondalf?” Dawson asked.
         “Because I know exactly who you need for your first party member.  For the skills of one adventurer must be matched equally, but oppositely, by his partner.  You, a brute-force fight-now-ask-questions-later warrior shall need, for a comrade, most definitely…” Ganondalf paused for dramatic effect.  “… A ranger.”
         The crowd ooh-ed.
         “Brilliant!” Dawson cheered.  “Where can I get one?”
         “Why, I do believe we have one rather close by, don’t we folks?”
         Ganondalf peered at them, with a strange look of understanding that at first the people did not understand.  Then, with a little emphatic throat-clearing and head-nodding, eventually they caught on.  Looks of surprise and shock erupted on their faces like the spreading of a wildfire or a highly contagious illness, and hushed murmurs emerged among them as they discussed something that was apparently rather concerning.  Oblivious to what was going on, Dawson prodded for more out of Ganondalf.
         “Well, who is it?  Where is he?  Or she?”
         With a cheerful, self-satisfied smirk, Ganondalf cleared his throat again and politely gestured for the crowd to step aside.  They separated directly down the middle in front of where Dawson and Ganondalf were sitting and there revealed, at the far end of the room, was a man in a cloak.  Sprawled over his table with one hand clinging to an empty flagon and his other arm hanging lifelessly over the edge, he was sound asleep; and snoring.
         “Who is that?”  The innocence in Dawson’s voice seemed almost unbearably awkward in the silence of the tavern.  But Ganondalf simply smiled.
         “That, my boy, is the first member of your party.”
         Dawson peered at him for another moment or so.  The crowd kept turning their heads back and forth from the duo to the ranger, anxiously awaiting some sort of movement from either party.  Then Dawson lifted his fifth pint of orange juice to his lips, downed it, slammed it on the counter, wiped his mouth in one practiced movement with his forearm, puffed out his chest, and hopped off his stool.
         “I’m going to say hi!”
         As the head of Dawson the would-be knight passed by the waistlines of the tavern patrons, they, like a uniform school of fish, followed behind until they were in almost the exact same formation around Dawson and Ganondalf as before only now at the back of the room.
         The ranger was garbed in a mottled gray and green cloak that draped over his quiescent figure like a ratty blanket, and Dawson could detect nothing of the man’s face or head for it was hidden under a hood.  His arms were clad in simple green fabric, though his forearms and wrists were cuffed in hard leather bracers with almost-intricate clasps.  The ranger’s back was rising and falling slowly and steadily with each cacophonous snore that ranged in sound from that of a grunting boar to a wheezing, suckling piglet, and it surprised Dawson that he had not heard the noise until now.  Taking in the sight of the hapless, wasted man, Dawson set his hands on his hips in a clearly disapproving gesture.  He hadn’t the slightest idea how someone who was about to join him on a quest to earn knighthood could possibly be sleeping.
          Politely, he cleared his throat.  “Excuse me, sir.”
         “Hrghrrrnnnn…..hsheewww…”
         “Ahem.  Excuse me, sir.”
         “…zzzz…..”
         “I beg your pardon my good man but when I am trying to speak to you it is only good manners that you respond in some way, shape, or form!” Dawson pouted.  The ranger’s chest only continued to heave, and heave.  Feeling rather put out, a frustrated Dawson resorted to prodding the ranger on the back.  Nothing happened.  The poor boy was on the threshold of giving up, when a good-natured citizen of the tavern kindly stepped in to provide some assistance.  Assistance that came in the form of a large bucket of water.
         “Excuse me lad, I’ll set this old sop back on his wits!”  And with the veracity of one attempting to rescue his house; as well as perhaps his trapped wife clutching their newborn child and life-long family dog, the gentleman doused the ranger.  Dawson drew back in surprise with a voice-cracking gasp.  The ranger convulsed violently.
         “BWAH—HOO!  Hubbudabbubuddah…. Huh-WAH!  Holy catfish, what on earth… wazzhat??”
         The ranger sat bolt upright in his seat for a moment.  Then, after examining his surroundings, he slunk deep into his chair like a turtle retreating into a shell and hid there under his cowl from the inquisitive eyes of the tavern patrons and the awe-struck gaze of Dawson the would-be knight.
         “Why… are all you…  Fickled fiends surrounding at, and staring me… like I’m some sort of…. Carrion!  Hic!”  The ranger’s eyes were lolling to and fro as he struggled to concentrate on the scene in front of him, and his speech was terribly slurred; his words and sentences being either strung out and drawling or short and sputtering.
         Peering into the shadows of the man’s cowl, Dawson could only faintly but well enough distinguish the ranger’s features.  It was nothing extraordinary.  He had a beard; which might once have been trim and fashionable but was now just a scruffy, pointed goatee.  Mutton chops climbed the length of the ranger’s jaw-line and joined his side-burns, then led from there up into a ragged mass of shaggy, dark-brown or black hair.  Stray lengths of bangs dangled in front of his face and eyes, but the ranger’s unfocused and dilated pupils did not detect them; or else ignored them.  His cheeks looked grubby, as if blotchy ink had stained his skin—the same was true of most else that was exposed.  The poor, disgruntled man had a very air of washed-up ruggedness about him.  Dawson was thrilled.
         “Why, you are quite possibly the best ranger I have ever seen!  Though admittedly, I have not seen many.  Or any at all.”
         Slowly, carefully, and diligently, the man cocked his bobbing head in the direction of the thoroughly delighted Dawson.  He made a futile attempt of sizing up the lad.
         “Aye…?  Well… not more!  Re—retired…. Hic!”
         “I beg your pardon, but it just sounded to me like you said you were retired,” said a Dawson who all of a sudden was starting to feel nervous.
         “I’m… too old… for this… Crap!  Hic!.  Should have… retired… twice the last time ago I said I would but didn’t… oh… that just really hurt my head….”
         Dawson gave in to despair.  He buried his face in his hands and began to cry.  “But—but—!  Master Ganondalf, this isn’t fair!  You told me he was a ranger and that he could help me.  You lied!”  Dawson turned away. 
        The ranger looked at the boy with an expression of utmost incredulity much akin to as if he were undergoing spell of severe indigestion.  The tavern patrons looked back and forth from Dawson to Ganondalf.  Within a matter of moments, they were furious.  But before they could begin to protest, Ganondalf signaled for them all to calm down.
         “My dear, dear boy.  Now before you start crying over spilled milk, take a moment to consider things.  Clearly, this fellow is not fully awake yet nor in a truly manageable state of mind.  Why, you have not yet even told him of your quest, much less your own name; or even asked his for that matter!”
         Dawson wiped his eyes and sniffled.  “Oh… well, I suppose I haven’t…”
         “So why don’t you buck up lad, and tell him why you’re here?”
         Dawson was all smiles again.
         “Excuse me Mr. Ranger sir, what is your name?”
         The ranger shut his eyes and scrunched his features.  “It is… ah…. It is… around here… somewhere…”  By this point many horrified tavern patrons found themselves glancing down at the flagons of alcohol in their own clutches and disgustedly set them down.  “My name… that is to say… is…. Hic! Cease.”
         “Your name is Cease?” Dawson pondered.  “How peculiar.  It’s like, Stop, or perhaps Halt.  Or Quit!  Quit sounds much better than Cease.  What is your last name?”
         “It is.”
         “I do say that is even more peculiar.”
         “No…no… Cease is, not it is!”
         “Your last name is… Is?” Dawson questioned warily.
         “No!  Cease!”
         “Cease what?  I’m only trying to figure out your name.”
         “NO!  Not Cease what.  What Cease!”
         “Oh, I’ve always been terrible at these games.  How many guesses do I have left?”
         The ranger paused and sat still for a prolonged period of time.  The people of the tavern were feeling very awkward at this point, and Dawson was really not quite sure what was going on.  Then suddenly, the ranger took a sharp intake of breath.
         “Frederick… Marigold… Cease.”
“Oh….”  Even Dawson felt a little awkward now.  But that didn’t last long.  He and Frederick Marigold Cease had business to discuss.
        “Excuse me Mr. Cease, but I would like to talk to you about something.  You are a ranger,” Cease was about to protest but Dawson cut him short, “yes, you are a ranger.  Well according to Master Ganondalf, I am a warrior.  That makes us different.  But that’s good.  You see Mr. Cease; you are going to be in my party.  I’m going to go on an adventure, a quest, and when I’m finished I will be able to become a knight!  But in order for that to happen, I need help.  I need your help, Mr. Cease.  Now, I don’t exactly know what sort of reward you would want, but at the very least you can become a knight too!  Oh please Mr. Cease.  Please, please?”
        Now, Dawson quite possibly had the most striking pair of puppy eyes in the United Fiefdoms.  They were even showing signs of success on a sodding drunk who didn’t actually know what exactly he was being puppy-eyed into; Dawson’s words had come out as gibberish to him.  Something about a quest though.  Stammering, the ranger Cease struggled to gargle out a response.
        “I… what?  Now… do see here… I am re—re—re…tired…?”
        “But Master Ganondalf said you’d help me!” Dawson pleaded, his voice nearly cracking into a shriek.
        Now that was a name that registered well with Frederick M. Cease; stone-drunk or sober.  Though one might think to doubt it, the two knew each other very well.  Very well indeed.  And the tavern-goers very well knew Frederick Cease and Master Ganondalf.  Their eyes bore into the ranger, determining what he might do.
        The ranger Cease gulped.  “Ganondalf…?  Well, I suppose if Ganondalf says so… I wouldn’t want to, ah, disagree with… Master Ganondalf….”  The ranger nervously eyed Dawson, and tentatively cast his gaze about the room for a sight of the old wizard.
        Dawson, meanwhile, was thrilled.
        “YAY!  I have a ranger!  I did it Master Ganondalf!  Now what do I do?”  Dawson had learned enough by this time to know that there was probably still more to tell before he could finally get started.  It was a painful trial of patience.
        “You need at least one more member for your party.  Now, it is commonly recommended that once a warrior and a ranger unite that they find a mage, or wizard, to join them as well.  In this way, you complete the combat triangle that will, in theory, make you a near perfectly balanced and formidable team.  However, this is not necessary.  Mages are often slow and weak, and are usually very boring people.  Almost always, they are quiet, reserved, and annoying little smarty-pants who possess almost indiscernible character traits beyond their stagnant, closed off personalities.  Magic makes a person lazy, arrogant and overconfident, which is one of the reasons people with magical abilities are quite rare these days.”
        “I thought it was because magic was a rare gift,” Dawson said.
        “It is, but it’s made even rarer because they keep getting killed off.  Mages are always the first targets; remember that.  But anyways, we’re getting off subject.”
        “Aren’t you a mage, Master Ganondalf?”
        “Heavens no, I am a wizard.  There’s a grand difference my boy.  A mage is only respectable if he’s over fifty, and if a mage has actually survived that long they are automatically granted wizardship.”  Ganondalf saw another question forming in Dawson’s expression, but he stifled it with a raised hand.  “The difference between a mage, a wizard, and a Wizard is another topic for another time, my boy.  Don’t you wish to be off on your quest as soon as possible?”  Dawson nodded yes.  “Then stop asking idiot questions.”
        “Now, since we have gone over that, I will tell you who you and the ranger Cease do need next.  A simplistic, idealistic, naïve young boy and an old, gruff, inebriated ranger need for a companion, most definitely….  A girl.”
        The crowd aah-ed.
        “Brilliant!” Dawson cried.  Then he faltered.  “Now why would I need a girl?  What are they good for?  Girls are just silly people who talk too much and have cooties.”
        Gasps of offense and insult erupted from several feminine mouths.  Many men responded in kind as well, merely for the fact that this teenage boy had just denounced the idea of female companionship, which was simply too much for them to take.
        “Well now, my boy, it’s high time you left the sheltered, protective indoctrination of your parents that your natural human instinct should have discarded as rubbish ten years ago and embrace what pitiful amounts of testosterone you do still possess,” said Ganondalf.
        “Here is why you need a girl, or a woman, my child.  You and Mr. Cease are two males who will be off on a trek through the vast open wilderness and will come across many trials and dilemmas.  You need someone who will use their brain and rely on intellect and common sense before rushing in to beat stuff up.  You need that, shall we say, estrogen captain sailing your testosterone vessel.  She will balance you out, trust me.  She will introduce ideas and courses of action that you and Cease would never have considered or imagined, and she will most likely save your life on multiple occasions.  She will guide you.  She won’t be afraid to ask directions.  And she will most certainly have her way.  Which is all for the best, of course.”
        “But will she nag, Master Ganondalf?  I have a mother and a sister, and all they ever did was nag and nag,” said Dawson.
Ganondalf beamed.  “Well good heavens boy, of course she will!  But so long as you don’t argue, she will be happy, and you know what they say:  ‘Happy wife, happy life’!”
        “But do I have to marry her?” Dawson groaned in protest.  To him this whole idea of a girl was getting worse and worse every minute.
        “Oh dear, perhaps I misused that quote for this situation.  No, no, my boy, you don’t have to marry anyone.  But I will say, not only will a woman provide you with enlightening counsel, sound judgment, and insurmountable force of will, she will (if you find a good one, that is), be a good listener as well as talker.  She will long to communicate, and will offer understanding and kindness.  She won’t be afraid to show her feelings, and if you open up a little bit too every now and then, it will help everything go along nicely.  The bottom line is, my boy, a woman’s company on this long and hard journey will prove to be a vital means of survival.”
        “All right, you’ve convinced me.  She does sound awful nice.  Where is she?” asked Dawson, who was once again just as eager as he ever was.
        “Well, I should think there might be a few broads in this tavern willing to volunteer.  Well, how about it ladies?”  Ganondalf spun in a circle, addressing the crowd’s female population with a wide smile.
        There was an eerie silence.  Everyone glanced about themselves uncomfortably.  Dawson hardly noticed, he was simply too anxious to see who would step forth.  Apparently no one, for after perhaps thirty excruciatingly uncomfortable seconds for the poor people who had come to the tavern this evening with the sole purpose of having a nice, relaxing drink, no one stepped out.  This apparently quite pleased Ganondalf, for before Dawson had even a moment to despair the old wizard drew alongside him and spoke with a tone suddenly conniving.
        “As a matter of fact, my dear boy, I do think this is a blessing in disguise.  But before I get into that, I am going to tell you where to start your quest for the rings, for in a matter of moments I shall send you on your way.  Now you listen, very carefully.  Mr. Cease, you had better pay attention to the best of your ability as well.”  The ranger nodded, which caused him to wince and raise a hand to his forehead.
        “Several miles west of here is a village called Burkleheim, a small border settlement of Iowey Fief.  There is a man there known as Droman, and it has been known around these parts  for some time that he claims to be in possession of one of the legendary sixty-nine rings.  Unfortunately, that is the best I can do for you my boy.  But it is at least a start.  You must find this Droman and learn what he knows about the sixty-nine rings.  If it all turns out to be a farce, well, I am sure you can figure out what to do next.
        “Now before you start, I return to the problem of you lacking a female companion.  So I have a proposition for you.  In a matter of speaking, it involves an entirely separate quest altogether.”  After saying this, Ganondalf turned away from Dawson and looked into the crowd.
        “Boris the Barkeep, would you kindly come forth and inform this young lad of the affair that occurred early this morning?  You, I am sure, are much more familiar with the details than I am.”
        Dawson glanced about curiously as from somewhere within the middle of the throng a loud, boisterous grumbling like the sound of a growling dog filled the room.  Then some exclamations of disapproval arose as the people parted, forcibly, by a large, potbellied, hairy, burly man with mad eyes and a tousled, matted, grimy mass of wild, charcoal colored hair.  Dawson politely straightened and stood before the fellow with his hands behind his back and with a friendly smile addressed the giant.
        “Hello!  You are Boris the Barkeep, I presume?”
        Boris stared at the child, his chest heaving.  Then he spoke.
        “Now I mean no disrespect and hate to be so blunt, but I have to ask a question that has been on my mind ever since you opened your mouth.”  Boris leaned in, and Dawson cocked his head like a curious puppy.
        “Are you… different… from other boys?” he whispered.
        Dawson raised an eyebrow.  “What on earth does that mean?”
        “Absolutely nothing at all,” Boris said quickly in a smooth, relieved recovery.  The entire crowd let out a sigh of relief as well, but Dawson didn’t notice.  Boris cleared his throat.
        “Right, anyways, this mornin’.  It was right at dawn when I was just wakin’ up to open the tavern.  So I set about my usual mornin’ routine; dressin’, spittin’, bathin’, brushin’.  But as I was headin’ down the hall I passed by my Hawley’s room, and found her door closed.  I thought to myself, ‘odd’, because usually she’s up a half hour before me doin’ her mornin’ chores.  She always leaves the door open.  So I knock, and no one answers.  I call, and no one opens up.  Now, I’m a man with a sense of respect for one’s privacy, so I simply headed downstairs to the bar and figured I’d wait.  Well, comes time costumers are arrivin’ and she still ain’t down.  Now I figured I’m only doin’ my duty as a worrisome guardian so I marched right on up there and walked right in.  She ain’t there.  So I come back down and tell Stacey and Kami to man things and that I was goin’ outside; told em’ Hawley’s missin’.  Now them dumb blondes don’t really like Hawley so much, so they just shrugged and figured she just done gone and off’d herself.  I thought that was just ridiculous since she’s always been prettier and smarter than them two and wouldn’t have a reason to go and do a thing like that…”
        As enthralled as Dawson was with the story so far, he didn’t argue when Ganondalf raised his hand and spun it in a little circle; the universal gesture that someone was rambling and needed to bring things in.
        “Ahem, yes, where was I?  Ah yeah, I’m out lookin’ for Hawley.  I checked all her friends’ houses, but Mal said she wasn’t there.  So then I had no choice left but to check with the watch.  I asked the night-shift and the morning shift if they’d seen her.  Now here’s the crazy part:  One of the night boys said he’d thought he’d seen the old Witch of Teeter Tower, and that it looked like she was with who he thought was one of the barmaids from this tavern.  Then he admitted he’d been drinkin’ so he assumed it was nothin’!  Why, I laid out that miserable, worthless, toothless, spineless rat right then and there and started yellin’ to get a search party together.  That damned witch had done gone and made off with my girl!!  I always knew it was conspicuous, her sittin’ up in that old tower all alone, not disturbin’ us.  Knew she’d be trouble someday.  But kidnappin’!  Ain’t never been a case of it in these parts of Iowey Fief for generations.  So a search party of five volunteer minute-men set off almost right away, headed for Teeter Tower.  Now that was at about six this mornin’, and it’s about half a day’s ride to get there.  Now it’s been a whole day and there’s still no sign of them back yet.  I just… I dunno… I’m scared little buddy…”  Boris the Barkeep started to cry.
        Now here was a fellow Dawson understood.  With genuine sympathy, Dawson stood before the vastly constructed man and reached up as far as he could to pat Boris’s elbow.
        “There there,” Dawson said.  “It’ll be all right my good man.  Now I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone I love.  But I do know what it is like to cry.  So hear me sir:  Even if Master Ganondalf wasn’t intending for me to set out and find Hawley myself as part of my quest, I would still wish with all my heart that someone would find her and bring her back safely.”  Dawson smiled up at him, reassuringly and cheerfully.
        Boris dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief and sniffled.  “Aw, you would?”  Dawson nodded, and Boris smiled.  “Thanks little buddy.  I do pray you’ll find her… and if, I mean, when you do, tell her that I’ll miss her and can’t wait till she comes home.  But I do understand that, well, when you find her, she’ll be off questin’ with you and such.  I can just image it:  My Hawley, a hero, off on an adventure.”  His voice trailed off, and for several moments he merely stood, smiling, staring off into space with a gleam in his eyes.  Then he sighed and walked away, the crowd parting before him.  Then he tromped upstairs to the boardroom, and a door could be heard shutting; Ganondalf did not clear his throat until the last footstep had died away.
        “Yes, well, that was all very touching…” he said with one last dab at his eyes.  Dawson noticed that Cease the ranger was now sitting up in his chair, and his face was literally drowned in tears.  However, something told Dawson that the man probably wasn’t entirely sure what he was crying about.  “But we must now get to business.  Now, Mr. Dawson, despite all probable logic and comprehension, you actually deduced what I was going to ask you to do, and now that you know it, I see no further reason to delay you and Mr. Cease.  Here, I shall mark the location of Teeter Tower on your map.”  Ganondalf withdrew a red-ink quill pen from the folds of his cloak, and Dawson produced a large, nano-folded map from his inventory.  Ganondalf proceeded to draw in a little upside-down triangle upon an area that had originally appeared to be just some uncharted forestry and wrote in small, curvy handwriting, “Teeter Tower”.
        “Hey lad,” said a voice.  Dawson turned toward it and saw Boris the Barkeep descending the staircase with a pouch in his hand.  “I want you to have this.  It ain’t much, but it’ll provide for what you need.  And don’t think for a minute of refusing; I’ve been savin’ it for a good occasion, and I can’t really think of a better one than this.”
        Dawson took it with a grateful yet puzzled smile.  “Why would I ever refuse someone who wants to give me money?”
        “Oh, I, err…  Um.”  Boris nodded and decided it was best to just walk away.  He stepped behind the counter and proceeded to wash dishes.
        “Now, is there anything else you need?  Some provisions, weapons?”  Dawson shook his head.  “You’re all ready?  Well then my boy,” Ganondalf said as he led Dawson back to the bar-stools where the whole conversation had begun.  “This is where we depart.  It has been truly an honor meeting you, and I wish you all success and luck on your journey.  Perhaps, if fate is kind, you shall complete your quest,” Ganondalf said, nodding conclusively.  Then a thought struck him.  “Oh, I almost forgot the most important step!  If you do succeed, what you must do is bring all of the rings to the White Castle, and show them to the king.  I do believe the location of Merryland Fief is already labeled on your map?  Excellent.  And now I believe that is everything.  Remember the first steps:  Find Hawley the Barmaid at Teeter Tower, then find Droman in Burkleheim.  Now, you are all good?  Are you sure?  All right then.”
        Ganondalf looked Dawson in the eyes, and his expression led Dawson to believe that he was about to start crying.  Little did he know it was quite the opposite emotion about to emerge
        “Don’t worry yourself Master Ganondalf; we’ll see each other again before you know it!”
        “Oh, let us indeed hope so my dear boy.  But don’t, err, intentionally be too quick about it.”  Ganondalf paused for a moment, for he saw something stirring behind the boy’s wide and innocent eyes that was starting to make him nervous.  Tentatively, he patted Dawson’s shoulder.
        “Now you’d, err, better run along now, before you get too emotional and start hugging people... these folks are staunchly Baptist, mind you—”  Ganondalf’s voice was suddenly cut off and the only sound that escaped was a suffocated Oof!, for the gauntleted arms of Dawson had wrapped themselves around the feeble little man in a stifling bear hug.
        “Oh Ganondalf, you’re a wonderful human being!  You’ve been so helpful!  You’re like the grandfather I never had!  I won’t forget you!  I’ll miss all of you!  You’ve really been true friends, and I haven’t had many of those!  Now let’s go Mr. Cease!  We’re off on an adventure!!”
        And with that, the jumping, joyous, small figure of Dawson the soon-to-be knight scurried to the table where the ranger Cease still sat dazedly, grasped him by the hand, and leading him along like a seeing-eye midget galloped for the door, leaped across the threshold, and disappeared into the night.
        The tavern was silent as the last creak of the flailing door faded into oblivion.  No one moved, or spoke, or breathed.  They simply stared at the doorway, not quite sure if what they just witnessed had been real.  A mixture of awe, bewilderment, disbelief, and confusion filled the thick, sweaty atmosphere.
        “I do believe,” Ganondalf finally said after some moments, “that where I once felt greatly amused, I am now quite miserable.”
        The crowd murmured assent.  Gradually, they all shifted in an attempt to get more comfortable and were just about to settle in to the normal nightly routine when the door swung open.  They all froze.
        A tall, elderly man with a long gray beard, gray hair and round spectacles appeared in the doorway.  Calmly he strode inside; his bluish-gray robe flowing as if of its own animation and his wide brimmed, pointed hat of matching color nearly brushed against the ceiling.  He arrived at the counter, stood by the barstool that Ganondalf was occupying, and with a soft voice bearing a mysterious undertone of intense power and authority addressed Boris the Barkeep.
        “The usual, Boris.  Though with extra foam, if you do not mind.”  The silent barkeep nodded and went about preparing the drink.
        With an almost undetectable smirk, the old man turned and analyzed the silent, staring crowd and the stunned, quivering little man sitting next to him.  He pretended not to realize what was going on.
        “Why, my good people, you needn’t gawk.  Not that your reverence isn’t most humbling, of course.  Well, go on, loosen up.  I gave up Transfiguration magics long ago; there needn’t be any fear of being turned into a toad by this old goat.  No pun intended.”
        More awkwardly than ever so far this night, the crowd slowly dispersed and did their best to act as casually as possible.  Meanwhile, the old man received his drink and was about to partake of it when suddenly he stopped.
        “Dear me, in my old age I have even forgotten to sit down.  Now let us see…” Purposely dawdling, the old man eventually rested his gaze on the tiny figure of Ganondalf that seemed to be shrinking into his robe more and more by the second.
        “Why, Eugene, I do believe you are yet again sitting in my favorite chair.  You wouldn’t mind kindly abdicating?”
        Eugene very nearly threw himself off, and hastily returned the bar-stool to its proper position after almost sending it toppling to the floor.  “Ah, yes, of course, forgive me, ah, Master Ganondalf.  I was just, ah, warming it for you!”  The piteous creature stood back like an obedient dog as the wise old Wizard Ganondalf took his seat, muttering a sincere thank-you as he did so.
        “A most peculiarly behaving crowd tonight, wouldn’t you say Eugene?”
        “Oh, yes indeed sir.  Most peculiar.”  Eugene nervously twiddled his fingers behind his back.
        “Why, do cease your fidgeting.  One might garner that you have something to do with whatever has set these good people on edge,” the wise Wizard said with a gleaming smile.
        “Aha, yes, right.  Wouldn’t want that now, would we?”  Instead his fidgeting only grew worse.
        “Would this happen to have anything to do with that unusually ecstatic young man I found leaving the tavern holding hands with that drunkard ranger?”
        “Absolutely not.”  The words came out much faster than Eugene had intended them to.
        “I didn’t think so.”  Ganondalf took a long drink from his extra foamy flagon of Wizard’s Mind Bomb, and once the liquid was drained he let out a pleased sigh.  Then he pretended that a thought had just come to him.  “Say,” he said. “Isn’t it your horse, the old paint with dappled brown spots and a big black one on his left rump?”
        Eugene gulped, and his fidgeting disappeared all at once.  “Yes, erm, yes it is.”
        “Oh.  I thought so.”  Then Ganondalf shut his eyes, and appeared to be in a very tranquil state of being.  Eugene had just gathered the gumption to raise a foot and shy away, but the Wizard’s calm, yet unequivocally intense voice stopped him short.
        “Eugene, never pretend to be me again,” said the smiling Wizard.