He was getting too old for this. Every muscle and bone in his body ached, especially the ones currently petitioning his mind for permission to hurt Reralt.
“But the prophecy shall be fulfilled…” he muttered.
He shuffled through the monastery’s back hallway — once a holy corridor, now flanked by self-help scrolls, enchanted mirrors that only showed shirtless reflections, and a room Reralt had repurposed as a foam weapon arena “the danger room.”
The library — the library — still stood. Just barely.
The section labeled “Heroic Comics” was entirely fabricated by Reralt. He had written, drawn, and poorly colored all the issues himself.
They were awful.
The book he needed was older than he was.
Foxed, brittle, and held together with prayer and gravy stains. The gods themselves might have called it “battered and lightly fried.”
He opened it with reverence, muttering the invocation under his breath:
The Chamberlain sighed.
Reralt had no idea. He believed in “heroing” — whatever that meant. He thought it was strength. Reflexes. Destiny.
It wasn’t.
It was divine luck.
A leftover enchantment from a time when gods still walked the realm.
A smudge in the heavens. A hiccup in fate. A divine typo in humanoid form.
And now, after the dragon — a true feat, to be fair — the enchantment had… shifted.
The balance had changed.
More doors would open now. And not all of them led to places meant for mortals.
***
The Chamberlain traced his finger along the ancient prophecy.
A section marked with the seal of the Lost Pantheon of the lost gods.
He read it aloud, as the room grew still:
When the true hero arises with an act of true heroics
(Not that stupid contest — honestly, who approved that?)
Cluckthullu shall honk three times,
The Void shall walk among men again,
Then the prophecy shall start.
***
Margin Annotations of the Five:
- (Is this not too cryptic? Can’t we just say “when Reralt slays a dragon”?)
- (Well no, a good prophecy needs to be vague. Can we say “when the dragoon gets the little o kicked out of him”?)
- (how many times did the goose honked anybody actually counted?)
- (Can we let it rhyme? I have a decent melody — doob de dah.)
- (Oh shut up for once and go seek out shoes, idiot.)
- (Come on guys, they can read this, you know.)
- (What if we let mice tell them?)
- (Didn’t you try that before?)
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- (Shall I scribble in “he needs a hat”? Would be funny. Everyone could use a hat.)
- (A holy hat song?)
- (A blue hat?)
- (This is on purpose, isn’t it? You're asking for another beating, Lord of the Disc.)
- (Ha! Hit him 42 times, Feltboy.)
- (Keep it up and I’ll give you a Minchin.)
- (Well we have five hundred years, so about five of your songs?)
- (Well, at least you'll go up a level.)
- (To heaven?)
- (No, a LEVEL. Figuratively.)
- (Heaven’s not literal, you know.)
- (For heavens sake)
- (Please just sit there and shut up.)
***
And lo—
When Reralt slays a dragon,
With a kitty and a bard,
Then shall he go forth
And unlock the Lost Pantheon of the Lost Five.
(Although perhaps only Four.
One currently sits insulted in the corner.
Let us see if his rage lasts five hundred years.)
Pussy.
The chamberlain, put down the book and put his finger over his duck feather covered beard. The gods were wise. A bit unhinged, but the truth behind it was fascinating.
***
Somewhere in a forgotten crevice of reality, where time got tired and logic took naps, four entities stood around a flickering scrying pool.
A fifth sat in the corner, prowling, brooding, and occasionally knocking over sacred objects just to get attention.
The surface of the pool rippled. A vision flickered: a man, a kitten, a bard, and a dragon that had most certainly been slain.
The hatted one leaned forward.
“It is happening,” he said, eyes wide under the brim of a slightly glowing hat.
“After all these years, finally... the shortcut worked.” The one wrapped in terrycloth said.
“Five hundred years is not a shortcut.” The Patron of the stick grumped.
The one with the hat sighed. “Can we please stop having exactly the same discussion, with exactly the same lines, with no comedic payoff?”
The one barefoot began to hum. “Ceeeeee… sing with meeeeee—”
“NO HAT SONGS.” the other three roared in unison.
From the corner, the felt-covered figure growled.
“Still not apologizing,” he muttered, folding his arms, very nearly becoming invisible against the velvet shadows.
They all looked at each other. Then at the pool. Then at the kitten.
The prophecy had begun.
And the gods were not ready.
***
Put a hat upon thy head,
Let the thoughts stay in instead.
Wide or pointy, tall or flatted,
You’re not wise until you’re hatted.
Let the Disc go spin and squeal,
Let the Felt deny what’s real.
Let the Barefoot write this song—
Let the Towel get it wrong.
Let the stick comment on order
Let the prophecy open the border.
With a hat! A hat shall lead the way!
It’s what true heroes wear today.
For swords may fail and logic flee,
For color's lost and rhymes may be,
But hats remain, atop the wise—
And hide receding hairlines.
So raise your helm or cap or crown,
Let no bare scalp bring us down.
The chosen one? You’ll know it’s that—
Not by sword, nor quest—
But hat.
And that’s a wrap.
The Ballads of Reralt – A Simple Hero is here and completely online for your pleasure.
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R.J.J. Moll