The Great Tale of Sir Gallalot

Sir Gallalot knelt by the crystalline surface of the mystic silver pool, lost in desperate prayer. The moon shone down on him, casting his figure in an ethereal light – worthy of his majestic nobility. “Divines!” He cried unto the swirling heavens, “Grant unto me thine blessings that I might save my lady love, Princess Agatha from the dragons!”

The Fates must have held him in high regard, for his wish was soon granted. Out of the gleaming waters rose the knight’s guardian, in a torrent of light and wisdom. The wind gained the strength of a storm, causing the tides to part, and the elder sorcerer’s robes to billow behind him as he stepped forth. In awe of the sorcerer’s might, Sir Gallalot bowed his head low and cried, “Great Mage of Leeds, I beg of thee, show me whence the dragon hath imprisoned my princess!”

The sorcerer heaved a great sigh and pierced the knight with his starlight gaze. “Stop talking all this Old English crap! You know no one understands it!”

Gallalot was taken aback, “S-sorry” he stuttered. “Can I please know where the dragon is?”

“Okay so what you do is follow the Road of Swords until you see the Tree of Avalon, then take a left. Do not – I repeat – do not take a right, or you’ll end up in Hades and trust me, that is not how you want to spend a Saturday afternoon.”

All of Gallalot’s good breeding forced him to thank the sorcerer for his guidance. It also forced him not to remind the sorcerer that it was a Tuesday. With his vague directions and his blessed blade at hand, Gallalot began his journey…
…which only took about twenty minutes, since the Road of Swords was not nearly as scary as it sounded, and he successfully remembered to take a left. Upon arriving at the dreary and foreboding Dragons’ Keep, Gallalot ventured into its labyrinth of stone, only to find the halls deserted. His terror was a living, breathing thing; his heart raced, his palms sweaty, but his knightly honour propelled him forward. Behind the final door to the Great Hall, he could hear the guttural language of fifty dragons, and the clinking of porcelain. He steeled himself, lifted his blade, and pushed open the door, prepared to fight.

Only he found the Great Council of Dragons in the midst of their annual tea-party-slash-bake-off. They all stared at Gallalot, porcelain cups poised in their tiny hands, and confused expressions on their long faces. Gallalot cleared his throat, “Yes, well… I come for Princess Agatha?”

The Head of the Great Council rose from his seat with a blank stare as he held up an offering. “Would you first like a crumpet?”

“What? No!” Cried Gallalot, brandishing his sword, “I come for the princess and I will slay any who stand in my way!” “Well she was supposed to judge the bake-off,” another dragon piped up, “but, yeah… okay, I guess.”

The elegant Princess Agatha strode across the Hall, her long lavender gown swirling around her ankles as she neared her “rescuer”. “My sweet Sir Gallalot… why did you feel the need to do this, man? Why?”

Startled, Gallalot attempted to calm her sudden fury. “I thought you were in danger, my love!”

Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose. “The only danger I was in was of being hangry. You never think of me as a person, but as a prize to be won from dragons, who – by the way – are super chill! They were going to feed me so much pie and cake. Seriously? Let it go. Chivalry is dead. I’m going to give dating princesses a try.”

Here ends the Tale of Sir Gallalot the Brave-but-Kind-of-Thick.