Back down into the tattered and stained, age-brown pages ripped from ancient history, in the days when the bloodthirsty swords of Roman soldiers cut their grim swathes hither and yon all through the land, here and there brave pockets of barbarians held out in resistant areas. Needless to say, they had a fight on their hands! But in such ways and days, tales were made that have come down to regale us today with bravery in the faces of the defiant, in the face of those whom fate had foredoomed them to defy. This is one such story. The story of Gog-Bo: The Dragon-Murderer!
When Gog-Bo was a young lad of not 11 years of age, and already showing a wicked and unexpected facility with the blade, his preternaturally disciplined mind had already perceived that he was but a pawn in life, a pawn in the wider machinations of his Uncle Kwuk and Aunt Mo. Uncle Kwuk desired him to be broken to the yoke of a plain farm hand, skilled in cropsmithery and little else. But Aunt Mo had taken him aside on the side and passed down the secret and nigh-mystical skills to which she was privy, having apprenticed in the East with a master.
Man, this story is already getting way too. fucking. awesome.
Still, despite being only a pawn, Gog-Bo had a calm yet serene relish for the simple rhythms of his farm-life day. Insert detailed list of clockwork chores, very compellingly, evocatively and realistically described. And then at the close of each day, when at last his chores were done, Gog-Bo retired to Uncle Kwuk's disused Barn #2 and retrieved the blade that had been bequeathed to him by Aunt Mo: her own slim sword, forged by ancient deeds, twice-blessed and triple-cursed with spells of mayhem and protection, and now passed along to his eager hands. Not a mere tool of vengeance or practical warfare concerns, but a weapon with intent, and a certain sly personality of its own. A blade with a name: The Wicked Shimmy.
His chores done, the evening was his to do with as he pleased, until supper. Gog-Bo drew The Wicked Shimmy ringing from its dull, plain scabbard, and began the first of the maniacally-complicated series of passes, lunges and feints that Aunt Mo had drilled into him. Gog-Bo closed his eyes as his limbs and pulse quickened. The air around him hummed and whistled as it was cut. This moment was what he lived for: the dance, limbs and blade spinning space into a glittering web of keen steel. In fury, a meditation. "HAAIIII!!!!" he cried!!!!!
To Be Continued In Part 2 of Gog-Bo the Dragon-Murderer