Welcome to Three Word Thursday #38. If you enjoy reading my story, leave a comment then click on the names of the other players and go see how they used these bygone words. You’ll be entertained (and possibly educated) all at once.
Evaard crossed the village square, rounded the oporopolist’s stall and stopped. Fencil and the war horse weren’t where he’d left them. “Merchant!” He called to the oporopolist, “Did you see the boy and the horse leave?”
The merchant came from his stall and stood beside Evaard. “My name is Al Vacado,” he said. “The boy and I were sharing our lunches when the horse suddenly reared. It started bucking and jumping and pulling at the hitch. I told the boy to stand back, but he jumped up — left his lunch right here on the ground — and freed the reins.”
“So the horse ran off.” Evaard said. “And I suppose the boy followed it?”
“No, Sir,” Al Vacado said. “The boy leaped onto the horse’s back and the two of them shot out of here like an arrow. They took the mountain path.” The oporopolist pointed.
Evaard thanked the fruit seller and started walking. At least the mountain path lead past his own house. Maybe Vernal would have some news for him.
As he walked, Evaard wondered what might have spooked or frightened the horse. He seriously hoped the beast hadn’t scented dragons. As a trained war horse, he might have taken it into his head to charge, and with a boy on his back rather than a knight, stopping him would be difficult. If the dragons captured Fencil, would they harm him, or hold him in trade for their own young?
About two miles out of town Evaard came upon a drunk sprawled in the road. “Are you injured?” Evaard inquired of the man.
“Aye,” the drunk said. “I gone daft.” Then he launched into a garbled story about war horses, small boys, purple dragons and a headless knight. Even had the man been an aquabib, his brochity rendered his story unintelligible. Just the same, Evaard understood enough to know there were dragons about and that Fencil and the war horse passed this way.
“What do you know of the headless knight?” Fencil demanded. “Where is he?”
“Prolly in da belly ob the great burple peast!” The drunk said. “They went up way, da lot ob dem,” he pointed toward the noon sun.
Evaard shook his head and bid the man good-bye. The drunken sot made no sense whatsoever. Dragons were black or green, not purple. Most of his story was ficulnean — pure hallucination.