There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. They once resided in the old folk town of Grubmermener Village, and exactly when they first migrated to the Valley is a tale I’m not properly equipped to tell ya. I don’t have the education for it. I like dragons of course, I even like them so much I’ve studied them in my dreams, but dreams don’t mean nothing, do you understand? Do you understand this? I could claim to be a manager of knowledge but then I’d be lying. Do you see the conundrum I’d conjure for myself if I set down this path? Do you even see?

You need to understand something, young Griblerman. Dragons didn’t come to the Valley because they wanted to. They came because your father, Grilberman Part 1, made them. Back in those times he was known as Griblerman, but ever since you forced yourself along we had to make distinctions. I didn’t like that. Neither did Griablbmerman and the dragons didn’t either. They even had a Council of Dragons to discuss this. I can’t divulge what was discussed in this Council because I signed a form. And I wasn't there. It didn't even happen.

The Valley was a peaceful place before the dragons came. It was a peaceful place after too. I won’t be making any claims about whether the dragons changed the violence levels at any time. They’re fine. No dragon ever committed an act of violence that I ever heard of, certainly not in the Valley, but we have rules here. We have rules in the Valley that require a minimum amount of violence. I appreciated the dragons for this. They played their part. Let’s ask ol’ Hrumblefret. He was there. There he is now! HEY. Ol’ Hrumblerfater!”

The narration switched to third person and Ol’ Hrumbelrermt turned his head slightly to the left and also sloshed his tankard of copper ale. “Aye and what can I do ya for ya if it needs doin'?”

“I just need a bit of corroboratin’,” I mutter, remembering to slam this thing back into first person. “I need some facts. And facts need talk.”

“Well I’m your man,” Humbermelr said proudly, glancing towards the door with a suspicious guarded look. It was well known that facts barged in from this door at times. This was one of those times, or it seemed to be, but no facts were present. It was time to lie.

“Tell us about them dragons in the Valley!” I urge. “We need information.”


“Well I’m your man,” repeated Humbleter. He looked around and saw nothing. There was nothing. He had nothing. He was nothing.

“So you say. Tell us. Tell me and this lad here,” he gestured to me, who was heretofore not a character but suddenly created, “tell us whatchu know ‘bout them dragons in the Valley.”

“It’s like this,” began Hburmbler, tapping the side of his ale canister in a complicated rhythm that had actually been worked out years earlier by Q’fe’r’th’e’fer’er, the famous court bard. Very curious that the rhythm surfaces again in this tavern, do you not think so? Do you not recognize the weirdness of this? How curious indeed. Perhaps HUmbler was in fact Q'ref'er'feer'. It was time to investigate this. “It’s like this. The Valley was green and gold. Gold and green and flipping in the wind that blew through there in those days.” He took a moment to sigh. “Yah, those were days indeed.”

I monitored the ins and outs of the situation. This was one of those that would not be a problem but I still did not appreciate it. It bothered me. A lot of things bother me. Dragon talk bothers me and yet I am helpless to continue listening. I must know.

“Back in those days, the famous court bard whose rhythm you probably didn’t even detect lived in that valley.”

“What was his name?” somebody asked. The scene was becoming your typical problem.

“I don’t have time to paste it,” answered Humbler promptly with a touch of a mood. “Just read it above. Back in those days, he lived in the Valley.”

“The Valley, you say.”

“The Valley, I say,” said he, somberly, and with NO TRACE of the mood he characteristically needed to remain memorable.

“And what was the name of this Valley?”

“I don’t keep track of names,” the now nameless man answered in no tone whatsoever. “Names distract us from the true meaning of things. Names have no purpose but to divide and define.”

"But we need names to--"

But Ol’ Humberletter was on one of his rampages again. There was nothing for it. He was known in these parts for doing this but his rudimentary knowledge of philosophy kept the other charlatans enraptured. No serious man would entertain these rampages but there was no serious man in these regions. The Serious Regions were away South for the winter, having migrated there several hundred million year ago, before dragons even came to the Valley.