The King called for a feast, for it was Christmas, and so every single bird and every single beast of the country was caught and killed and brought to the kitchens of Camelot to be roasted in the marrow of its own bones. Every fruit from every tree and every root from every bush that wasn’t deadly poisonous in its own right was brewed up and fermented and distilled until it was as intoxicating as a single glance from Queen Guinevere herself. And twelve days of merriment was enjoyed by all who had earned their place around the table.
At the end of the feast, and the beginning of the new year, the Knights set forth for distant lands in search of supplies for next year’s gathering. By Merlin’s estimates there were ten feasts until they brought about the end of the world and the death of all things. Lancelot claimed he could get that down to eight if he tried, and everyone laughed and clapped him on the back, as he drank one last pitcher of sweetly rotting mead before climbing up onto his horse and setting out into the mist of the early morn.
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Notes:
1. Written on the 20th October, 2022
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