Harry's notes: This was originally written with verse included in the text and as so was only acceptable as a poem. I've stripped the end of lines out the poetic stanzas to make it possible to submit in story boards.
W.L.I.T. Radio for the Masses, Fairyland Theatre
Static, crackles, then the sound of an analog tuner searching for a station. Those of you fortunate enough to have heard this will understand; the noise clears to dead air, then...
sfx: chimes vo, sung, brightly: "Double you, elle, eye, tee." cue1: retro radio serial organ music: Announcer, cheery voice: Welcome to Fairyland theater and tonight's episode, sfx: echo/wavering/dramatic.
Fay Ray and the Dragon Escapade.
Brought to you by those good folks at Harry's Tongue Prophylactics, sfx: [numina, numina, numina] try their new lizard skin brand, guaranteed to give her shivers. cue2: Fairyland intro theme.
When last we left our story, Ray was dashing pellmell to Greensward with urgent messages on his trusty battle boar, Puddin sfx: galloping hoof-beats/macho piggy grunts of exertion. vo, Ray: Look boy, roadkill! sfx: squeal, chomp.
Act I
Greensward, the end of a very long week: Ray has been detained from returning to his new bride after delivering sensitive documents at the start of dragon mating season. He sits at a large well made table in a grand stone walled room, sparsely furnished but comfortable.
Fay Ray puts down a willow quill with a frown. The noise from the swamp was astounding; great violently shaggin' dragons without engaged in obscene displays, two leagues gone the window, immense genitalia poked and stroked and sprayed, waves of spume-flecked cum and water, copiously, and mud, oh god, the mud.
Catastrophe threatens the whole kingdom's grain and his own sanity, fastidiousness, breath, as breakers of their scaly fornication wash over soggy fields, best to hay, scald-blasts of steamy scented musk, flesh burning, and the roar of two lust-maddened beasts.
Ray draws the curtain 'gainst the breeze n winced as his cock hit the bed, and 'e cursed, damn thing must'a grown an inch, mumbles.
"Never seen it so bloody red." adjusts pants for fit, rings the bell-pull thrice for wine, igniting bawdy laughter below and his rage of being denied his fresh bride; one thing a solace as fresh tipple's delivered, the service here's never slow.
He turns to a pike-man standing straight at the door, "How long does this usually go on?" The pike-man stoically avoids his eyes, placing the wine on a desk, as usual, gathers up scattered empties, prepares for his hasty escape to the kitchen.
"It's only the first week; they've still got the flyin' no tellin' how long, days n days of insane thunder n lightnin' extinguishin' all the fires laid by them's pyroclastic orgasms that'l refill bog's nest gone dry with their ruttin'."
Clutching the empties unto his chest, shifting to a place by the door, his gaze passes over poor Ray's lament and his face gives him instantly away. Cheeky bugger.
Ray lowered brows at the pike-man gone silent agin, straight, braced and bold, but daring a grin for the laughs in the ale house as the story's retold, in the midst of Dragon festival debauch, of the visitor's tent as he pens a short note to his lady at home, and She...
Spying at that very moment with fairy magic: 3D sensory rendition to assess his condition. Poor Ray.
Wise to the ways, whys and wherefores of Dragonmas in Greensward, but so sore from long nights in her wedding bed, She'd her father send him away on a chore while delicate lady-parts healed, dreaming of her lover's return, non compos mentis, soaked to the skin in Fay pheromones, the same seeping in her boudoir.
She groaned n growled herself, found her fan n fanned, closed far vision in a hurry, returned control to the pike-man again...
Who blinked at Ray's furrowed glare, face 'last gone flat at the displeased stare, waiting for dismissal and escape to the stairs, back to the pair of maids down there, the midnight scent of the swamp blowing in.
He runs at a wave of the hand of the guest, laughs at the click of the bolt at his back, at the note from our Lady sent with the gent, rumored to read by the Chamberlain's whisper.
"Uncle, put him in the south wing nearest the swamp, lock away the scullery maids, shod his steed in dragon-forged shoes to keep him safe in his mad dash for home when Fay beasts have failed to roam; stay mum the plans we've made, yer moggy niece, Bernice."
Or so the gossip said...
Ray walks away from the door as empties clatter down, dropped by that clown that had the cheek to smile at his biological infirmity...
Replacing a frown with weak cheer, drawing parchment n ink near, pours the wine, drinks, addresses the page.
"Dear, My Lady, I fear I'll be delayed some time as certain events have occurred here. The whole kingdom's covered in sulfurous cloud's after a brace of dragons arrived to nest in the wetlands just south of the town. Your uncle thinks it's best if I stayed until the dragons desire's finally slaked."
He paused and rubs a stiffened cock, breeze breathes a gasp of erotic shock, scribes in hasty determined strokes. "Miss you like you wouldn't believe, Yours, sealed with signet, wax n kiss."
Folded, slid 'neath the door for a pouch to the Nor'east that might still go out today, dove deep 'neath the covers, moaned, slept, dreamt of acts most lascivious.
He heard her silver bell laugh as he dreamed, dragons bellowed from steam covered swamp.
She, long gone to bed, dreaming of Ray's return, red wax bedroom candles burnt out, the dawn, just holding sway on a room where two lovers will lay in the non-light of some future morn.
Act II
Greensward, the next day: -1C and dropping, clear sky, brilliant sun rising exactly over the road far across fields where it enters the oak forest.
The sun draws a questing finger over Fay Ray's quilts, broken pillows, pokes the frosty nose signifying Ray's form where he's lying, only a snorkel to the empirical world.
The covers move, extend a toe, retreat, the next to show, Ray's moppy head n eye, calculating just how far the bell-pull's located across the frigid floor.
The duvets surge n thrown away, a naked Ray gives the day a bellow of his long frustration, lunges, rings once the string that broke whose ding by this time made redundant as echoes from his scream reverb through the Manse.
Silence.
He imagines hearing laughter from the kitchen down below, member quickly retreating with the unrelenting cold, thunder from the steps, no knock n beverage placed to hand and a hasty firing of the chimney's mouth. My man.
The pikeman forgiven, Ray embraces the sensation of shrinking tumescence and strong libation, heat sent out by wild happy flames, reflected from hearth throat in this puzzling frost-rimed room.
"What now?" Ray inquires, as if to himself, embracing the balm of his peter's relief, a sigh but for sip or toasting balls unknown, stands silent watching fire's growth.
The pikeman keeps busy, face turned to the grate, teeth gritted 'gainst a grin at the current rate of Ray's shriveled pizzle's decay.
Clearing a throat, guarding against laughter, unlocking jaw in preparation for answer, turns, presenting the young master in metaphor.
"The first act's drawing to a close, this year's three, look out the window, you'll see, I'll be back with your breakfast," he takes the empty mug, "an' another of these and a tale of the magic about to unfold."
Ray fills an empty jar with piss, "Take this, bring some water for washing." Strolls to the window as the pikeman walks out, sloshing.
Squinting against the incredible strength of the sun, gasping when finally focused the sight of a frozen mound towering impossibly, fraught with a manner of things, all fixed like concrete, still in the light; a sun dances down like fire.
A dragon wing seems a bright spire, a back a buttress, shining white. A wagon wheel, a window wight, dim in the ice of tower's heights.
Dazed at the change, apprehensive, suspicious, air charged with magic his keen senses cry. Something auspicious about to arrive. Hide!
