We just robbed a shepherd.
Well. "Robbed" is such a strong word. Let‘s say—he fled dramatically upon spotting a naked girl in silver toe-chains and a dragon the size of his barn cresting the ridge. He dropped his lunch, his crook, and his composure, and bolted down the hill yelling something about “the end times” and “horny forest nymphs.” I waved.
So technically, we just found six glorious wheels of sheep cheese sitting unattended in his hut. Along with… bagpipes.
Yes. I took them. Of course I did. What part of “temple-trained in the sacred arts of seduction, song, and petty theft” don‘t you understand?
I‘m learning. Slowly. It sounds… like a mating walrus dying on a hill of rusty bells, but it‘s honest work.
The Dragon, meanwhile, is clawing at his ears like the pipes are summoning ancestral trauma. “That,” he growled after my third attempt at a victory march, “is not music. That is the auditory equivalent of crotch rot.”
“Oh hush,” I told him, cheerfully puffing into the bladder. “You just lack culture.”
“I have centuries of culture. None of it involved goats being strangled in a sack.”
I think I‘m improving. I managed an actual tune today—might have been “Shepherd‘s Lament” or possibly “Death Knell for Unwanted Relatives.” Hard to tell with bagpipes. The Dragon says if I don‘t stop, he‘ll donate the cheese and me to the next bandit clan we meet.
Too late. I‘m composing a new genre. I call it: Battle Whore Pipe Glam.
I will perform it barefoot, in stolen silk, with dramatic stomps. The Dragon may pretend to hate it. But I saw his tail twitch in rhythm.
He‘s doomed. I‘m a musical genius.
And now we have cheese.
The Dragon tried reasoning. Then pleading. Then threats. None worked.
“Saya,” he rumbled, tail twitching like a cat in agony, “for the love of all that is scaled and sacred, stop.”
I just grinned, planted one bare foot on the rock, and tapped out a jaunty little rhythm. “From the top!”
And I blew.
The bagpipes howled. Like a drunk goat being murdered inside a kettle. The echo bounced off the hills and scared a flock of crows into apoplectic flight.
The Dragon let out a long, pained groan, like his soul was trying to evacuate through his snout. “That‘s it. That‘s the sound. That‘s the harbinger of doom. Of blood. Of cultural violations so deep they should be illegal in multiple pantheons.”
I paused, lips still pursed on the blowpipe. “You‘re being dramatic.”
“No. I am being accurate. You ever notice,” he growled, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one claw, “what kind of people have that infernal thing as their national instrument?”
I blinked. “No?”
“Not nice people. Saya. Not. Nice. People.” He waved a claw. “Highland cannibals. Swamp-dwelling warbands. That tribe from the eastern cliffs who pickle their enemies and serve them at weddings.”
“Ooh. I think I worked a wedding like that once.”
He ignored me. “Every time you hear bagpipes in the distance, it means something awful is coming. Screaming, fire, inexplicable nudity, probably decapitations. Never once has it meant ’hooray, here comes a cheese festival.‘”
I puffed up my cheeks. “You‘re just mad you can‘t play.”
“I can play. I choose not to. Because I have taste. Also lungs the size of a trebuchet bellows and I still couldn‘t make that thing sound like anything but war crimes.”
I took a deep breath.
He lunged forward. “Don‘t.”
I blew again.
A note came out that sounded like a frog being sucked into hell.
The Dragon slumped against a tree and whimpered. “I‘m going to burn them.”
“You wouldn‘t dare.”
“I‘ll burn the hut. The hill. The concept of shepherds.”
I grinned and tapped my foot faster. “One more tune, then I‘ll let you eat the leftover onion.”
“Deal.” He paused. “Wait—what onion?”
But I was already mid-drone.
Somewhere in the distance, wolves started howling.