War Comes to Specshire, Pt 1

The sorceress known as Specs stretched as she arose from her dented seat on the sidelines of the battlefield and picked a few leaves out of her hair in a very elegant way. She had grown drowsy while laboring at her craft and the dim light hurt her eyes as only staring into the dark fabric of eternal ribbing can. She blinked and looked around her, noticing that dusk was rapidly sweeping in on silent feet like so many dusky ants, on what would be the third day of battle -- a battle that had no casualties yet, but many invisible and dark forces working behind closed doors and thick walls to bring about her eternal end. Her horse was standing to her right, and on her left her furry companion, Otto von Kittenburg, Third Heir to the Throne of Vintoozler and Keeper of the Kibble, slept fitfully, with his axe under his head for a pillow. He was tough like that. Specs woke her friend with a gentle tap on the shoulder that startled him and sent him flying into a nearby oak tree, which in turn toppled to the ground, squashing several small woodland creatures. They didn't even see it coming. She recalled the events of the past three days as her traveling companion extracted himself gracefully from tangles of ferns and vines. The troops had been rallied with a loud cry across the land that rang out like a thousand gongs being gonged at once by a large man with many wondrous arms, but who rather would have played the triangle. Numberless assassins silently slid into position in the dark shadows of the Internet and readied their sharp weaponry. Some had been waiting many months for this chance: a chance to prove their worth on the knitted field of valor. There are now war drums in the deep as the scent of new yarn wafts across the battlefield. Specs steps onto the field, grasping her pointed sticks of bamboo and holding aloft a small bundle of blue and grey. The wind whips her blonde hair fiercely around her head like so many angry snakes writhing with pleasure at the possibility of battle. She hoists her shining sticks above her head and shuffles her feet in a hesitant but nonetheless very becoming way. She cries out in a voice that is shrill in the winds of war: I'm... I'm almost finished! Her cry is whipped away by the impatient wind and carried elsewhere, perhaps to happier climes where the sun always dawns on a new day of craft and laughter. Tomorrow, she swore to her dark heathen god, tomorrow would be the day of reckoning. Tomorrow would be the day of mailing. The day she entrusted her sacred garments to the unseen and mercurial forces of the US Postal Service. Tomorrow. -------------------------------------- I think all of my Sock Wars posts may be written in this bad fantasy style. It's fun to do and nearly impossible to stop. What say ye, reading public? P.S. Visit my assassin's blog: http://oxknit.blogspot.com/ P.P.S. Thank you all for the (surprising!) compliments on my chin. It's my least favorite body part and I tend to look kind of horsey from the front. But at least I've found a good angle; I will insist on all photos of me being taken like this in the future.