Becoming a Renaissance Faire Lady

Well, they had three choices, really. Magnus Krane, Sir Daniel Raptus and Whiskey Grimes were all available, as they'd hung round the village post-zombie vanquishing for a little monster hunter R&R, taking in the air and smashing fairies to pieces. Once the ogre began terrorizing the village, however, the fairy-smashing got put on the back burner (of the wood-burning stove). Ever reckless, Magnus Krane decided that Whiskey Grimes, monster hunter in training, should be the one to slay the ogre as part of her final lesson. Ever unorthodox, Krane decreed this test would be conducted under the most dangerous of circumstances: He would allow himself to be captured by the ogre, and it would be Whiskey's duty to track the ogre back to his lair, slay the beast and set Krane free.

Against his better judgment, Sir Daniel agreed to the plan, despite assuring all that it was folly: Not only would Whiskey receive a failing grade on the assignment, but Krane would likely lose one to three limbs in the process. Brave Krane wandered round the village unarmed, boasting of his innate tastiness, and was swiftly scooped into an iron cage by the great green ogre. Supervised by Sir Daniel Raptus, who would in actuality be totally inept in an ogre emergency because of his specialty in ghost-vanquishing and general unfamiliarity with beast-slaying, Whiskey tracked the ogre into the hills as it stumbled back to its lair with Krane encaged. 

Whiskey crept. She sneaked. She ooched. She loaded her mostly trusty blow-dart gun with poisoned darts that would tranquilize the ogre in his lair, just as she'd been taught by her instructors. And just at the right moment, just when the ogre turned his broad back, exposing his shoulders and making himself a prime target, Whiskey wasn't paying attention. But at the next-to-right moment, when the ogre was at a slightly less ideal angle, she spat out her poison darts in quick succession, bringing the ogre (and the cage it was carrying containing Magnus Krane) tumbling to the ground.

With several swift whacks of her axe, Whiskey severed the ogre's head and ran into the village of Scarborough with it lifted high above her head, proclaiming her success. She and Sir Daniel exchanged medieval high-fives. The town rejoiced. And Magnus Krane was stuck back in the ogre's lair, left to free himself from the cage with great difficulty. He arrived in the village of Scarborough some hours later, weary and covered in ogre's blood. He gave Whiskey Grimes a passing grade, but barely.

It was a fine way to end my monster-hunting education, shooting wooden darts at an ogre, yet another special effects wonder courtesy of Allen Hopps' endless dedication to creepiness. And the sweet little Faire kids enjoyed tossing the great foam ogre's bloodied head around after I emerged victorious from the beast's lair behind the monster museum. But the best was yet to come: At the end of the Faire day, I was hustled up to the front gate parapet to fire off the closing cannon, bringing another medieval weekend to an end. Nothing blew up, and everyone walked away with their limbs. Indeed, everyone in Scarborough lived happily ever after—except for the ogre. And the zombies. And the gremlins. And the fairies. And the trolls. And the banshees. And the kraken. And the area's surrounding craft and building supplies—for Raptus and Krane will stop at nothing to slay and display every evil beast that walks (or floats, or flies) upon the earth.