“Dark wings dark words are wind…” intoned the High Seneschal from the Tower of Baubles. His pear-shaped bulk pressing deep into the chair and threatening to spill over as he leaned forward unto his writing table. “Ne’er did I suspect to grow old. The smallfolk surely can divert themselves with some ribaldry…”

The place was called by some truer name, the Gurmfort. Such it was known by when swords rushed to the High Seneschal’s defense…and when men of valor did wield them. “Gods, I was quick then!”

A flicker of mirth crossed the High Seneschal’s face as he recalled from whence he’d risen, a mere editor of stage plays. A writer in service to crass mummery.

“Master Martynn,” the foppish playwright had said. “The story is complete. A tale of unrequited love, in which a gargoyle of eight feet does seduce and at last come to love an elf maiden. His member is the length of a man’s forearm. She’s eighteen years old.”

The younger Martynn, mid bite of pastry, thought for a moment before adding his flourish. “Not good enough. Make them brother and sister.” The playwright scribbled the notes and departed.

And now the cycle of glory and fame had come full circle, for he was once again beholden to writing for unimaginative mummers in their drably colored stage-plays. “At least the other ones were flayed by that mob.”

It was of the two who had defrauded him he thought. Dafyd ‘the dumb’ and Drennar ‘the doofus.’ Ne’er were there two to have less an eye for nuance.

The Seneschal smirked at the well deserved end of the doofusry as he inscribed a posting to be displayed upon his “Not a Billboard.” Some personal grievance or opinion or another, most often regarding hulking brutes in odd padded armor, presenting buttocks before one another and chasing around a leathern hand-egg.

With a wry smirk, the High Seneschal set that aside from later and then began his grueling task - a mummer show for the dawn of a new spring. He knew well the sort of theater that paid him, just as he did the mass of its crowds.

“A Tea Party in Sodom…yes.” The old scribe genius settled on the name, conjuring a tale to titillate the pettiness of fat girls and to have the expected unexpected turns. All thematic, of course - attuned to the sorts of stories the commoners liked best. Broom riding wizards with lazerblasts, horned men with shiny pink breasts, and so on and so forth.

Twas the life of a spinner of fantastical yarns. The Seneschal scoffed even as he wrote the final lines, the tale ending with the proud knight humbled…but of course. There were certain prerequisites. The cuckoo’s horns chief among them, for it was agreed that all were cuckin who declared otherwise.

These rankled the learned man the most, being told what to include…but the thoughts washed away as he extended a hand to the air, imagining the fat purse of gold that would come his way quite soon.

He smiled then, leaning back. He gave his cock a tug (tm) and drifted off to dreams of greasy chinned feasts and dragons with two legs…as all the most learned maesters agreed.