The manor stood tall during the storm. It wasn't going to let a bit of wind and rain traveling at deadly speeds worry it.
Inside, the gentlemen and ladies of the house sat curled up in front of the fire. Well, not exactly. The ladies had on dresses which were unsitable for curling up in and the men were much to manly to do something like snuggle up by the fireplace.
The whole scene was kind of like a Christmas card. You know the ones. The ones that have the couple on the loveseat, sharing a scarf and a mug of cocoa in a rather sickening way. The person putting the star on the top of the tree and almost toppling of the top of the ladder because the poor fool is standing on his tiptoes, totally defeating the purpose of the ladder. And one fat guest, drunk from all the sherry.
But in this house, there wasn't a tree, a couple on the loveseat or a ladder. There was sherry though.
Taking up all the room on a big armchair sat Mr. Simon. He was known as the greatest hunter in the land. He had once been a mere banker, his life drawling on at a slow pace. Then, because of a bet with a drunken sailor, he caught a mermaid. After that, they called him, "Mr. Simon, Greatest Hunter in the Land TM". No one was sure what the "TM" was for, but the said it anyway because it sounded proper.
Well, enough of the amazing adventures of Mr. Simon. The point of mentioning this man in the first place was to move the plot forward. You see, he had an idea. This idea leapt into his head rather foolishly when he saw Lady Mitsy standing by the window. Her worried expression had got him thinking, a very dangerous pastime if your name is Mr. Simon.
"No need to worry about the Wyverns Lady Mitsy. We men will soon take care of them." Utter silence followed this. Mr. Simon continued with,"I think we've been afraid of Wyverns for far too long. This land is always under attack. I propose we hunt them."
He looked for eager faces and found none. One of the faces belonged to Mr. Jack, the butler, who looks like the obvious suspect in a murder but isn't because anybody who has watched Scooby Doo knows that the creepy man polishing things in the background is obviously innocent. Mr. Jack never spoke. He just nodded or shook his head solemnly. They did say that anybody who could get him to say something would win a shiny penny. No one ever got a shiny penny though. Not even a yucky green one passed hands.
Mr. Simon glanced at the two other men in the room, a young lad by the name of Smedley and a scotsman by the name of Mad Horace. Smedley was a white faced youth who was a weenie, so he was sure to tag along without protest(if he was bullied the right way). Mad Horace, everyone said, was insane. He wasn't. He was Scottish. Well, maybe he was a little bit...off.
So the small party headed out into the field of hunting. They trudged through marshes and moors and slashed at strange hanging vines with their machete. Sweat poured down their faces and backs as they went on their epic journey.
From the front of the manor, Lady Mitsy watched. Some might call the miniscule hunting party intrepid. She called it foolish. They were five feet from the house now and had managed to get young Smedley tangled in the elderberry bush.
Lady Mitsy tilted her head back to look at the blue sky. No sign of wyverns yet. She remembered her poor old father, who had tried hunting wyverns before. After that he threw back his head, waved what was left of his arm at the sky and screamed, “I’ll get them someday. Those buggers will have a hard time getting to me!” That was right before they swooped down again. Now, what was left of him lived in the city.
The hunting party had tried to get a good start, but Smedley kept getting tangled in things and Mad Horace had sunk up to his waist in the marsh. Mr. Simon groaned. He had chosen the wrong people. Well, he wouldn’t let them bungle his special mission.
At that very moment, there was a sound of wingbeats and a scream. The hunting party raced back to the manor and found an empty space where Lady Mitsy had been standing a moment before.
Mr. Jack sighed and grumbled, “Bugger.” There was silence. Smedley face went whiter than before and Mr. Simon wiped some sweat from his brow.
Mad Horace spoke, “When we go to rescue the lass, we should give the wyvern a penny.”
“Are you mad? Wait, don’t answer that. We can’t go and save her from the wyverns. They’re incredibly dangerous!”
“Weren’t you the one who organized this hunting party Mr. Simon?”
“Well, yes. But there is a fine line between honest British sport and killing yourself because some girl is being carried to her certain death.”
“You could be a hero sir! This is the heart of British spirit Mr. Simon! Imagine what we will be rewarded with?”
“Smedley, I am not going to save her. I’m tired and Mad Horace here is bogging for a cup of tea. It seems a bit too much like hard work. I am not a fan of hard work. You may go and approach certain death if you wish.”
Smedley glanced at the moor. There was danger out there and adventure. He had made a speech about the greatness of the British and the need to rescue a damsel in distress. It’s time to show them what you’re made of, whispered an inner voice. Show them who you really are.
He took a deep breath and announced, “Put the kettle on Mr. Jack.” The hunting party went inside and began telling outrageous stories about the wingspan of the wyverns that they swore they got, but rather unfortunately sank into a bog.










The End (Unfortunately)