The Fellowship of the Errands
Barry Bumble, a man whose life ambition peaked at "balanced ledger," found his Tuesday morning irrevocably altered by an email subject line reading: "URGENT: PROPHECY INITIATED. RE: YOUR DESTINY." His first thought was phishing. His second, after seeing the sender "The Ancient Council of Eldoria (Do Not Reply)," was "Oh, *this* again."
It appeared Lord Malakor, the so-called "Shadow-Stained Sovereign," had once more misplaced his annual subscription to "Evil Overlords Monthly" and, in a fit of pique, declared dominion over the realms, starting with the communal biscuit tin. And, as per the prophecy – helpfully attached as a 50-page PDF – Barry, the only one who hadn't unsubscribed from the Eldorian mailing list, was the "Chosen One."
His quest? Not to smite Malakor, but to retrieve Malakor's overdue library book, "101 Uses for Slightly Stale Breadcrumbs," which apparently contained the only known cure for the Dark Lord's chronic ingrown toenail, a condition that made him exceptionally ill-tempered.
His companions were equally 'legendary.' There was Elara Whisperwind, a lithe elven archer who spent most of her time practicing dramatic poses and critiquing the local fauna's lack of "narrative arc." Then Grungle Stonebeard, a dwarf whose primary contribution to the "fellowship" was an uncanny ability to complain about any terrain steeper than a putting green. And finally, Arch-Mage Thistlewick, whose grand pronouncements invariably involved the best way to compost kitchen scraps or which brand of magical stain remover was most effective on goblin blood (spoiler: none).
Their journey was fraught with peril, or at least, minor inconveniences. The "Whispering Woods" whispered only complaints about their choice of footwear. The "Chasm of Despair" was a moderate incline with a long queue for the single-person rope bridge, requiring Barry to fill out three forms in triplicate. The "Orcish Hordes" turned out to be a particularly militant union of municipal workers demanding better lunch breaks.
Finally, they reached Malakor's "Dread Citadel," which was mostly just a slightly imposing bungalow with a perpetually clogged gutter. Malakor, a man who looked less like a harbinger of doom and more like a disgruntled middle manager, eyed Barry suspiciously.
"You brought my book?" Malakor snarled, wiggling an obviously painful big toe.
Barry produced the slightly damp, dog-eared copy. "It's a bit overdue, sir. And it smells faintly of elderberry jam."
Malakor snatched it, thumbing through to the page on "Advanced Toenail Care for the Chronically Grumpy." A sigh of relief escaped him. "Excellent. Now, about that prophecy... I think it also said something about ordering a new supply of artisanal cheeses. You wouldn't mind, would you, Barry? And make sure they're lactose-free this time. My stomach..."
Barry sighed. He knew he should have unsubscribed.