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Wet Socks and All

My grandfather gave me this dragon scale. It accompanied many late night stories of him killing the beast and saving the town. He was long gone by the time I worked out that it had been shed and not cut.

I don’t fault him for the lie.

The thing is, adventures are boring. The stories leave out the long bits of monotony that get you from here to there. Months and months can go by with absolutely nothing happening.

Grandfather’s stories never mentioned the boring things.

Like today. I spent most of it mending my wool socks. Socks are important out here. And when you have time you need to take care of them. My grandfather never talked about his socks. Turns out they are just as important as the shield I made out of the dragon scale.

It’s been a great conversation piece. Of course I may have been inclined to borrow some of grandads stories. Just a few. Why waste the effort to make up my own?

Truth be told, I’ve never seen a dragon. It will come, I suspect. Like at one point I had never seen a bugbear, until I did. That was a good sock day.

Turns out storytelling is a good skill to have on the road. I thank him for that. I have often had to tell a story or two to escape some menace or another. The trick is making it just detailed enough so they believe you, but just vague enough that you can wiggle your way through it.

Grandfather was good at that. I may curse him for it some days. But he did make me crave this life. And I do crave this life.

Wet socks and all.

Published in Fiction

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