Father and Son

Once up­on a time in a qui­et vil­lage among the forest­lands of Fun­gaard lived a fa­ther and a son, both of them were born and grew up there.

You see, my dear read­er, they were very close, those fa­ther and son, couldn't get clos­er than that, even though the fa­ther, a hunter by pro­fes­sion, would of­ten go hunt­ing and had to leave his son in the hands of his var­i­ous sweet­hearts.

Any long ab­sence would tear the fa­ther's heart apart. In the deep for­est he would of­ten have imag­i­nary talks with his son. His fel­low hunters didn't like that, spe­cial­ly that lice-in­fest­ed fur­ry cook who used to spit in his bowl of soup.

But then the old earl of their vil­lage died and it all start­ed falling apart. And, with­out much think­ing, fa­ther and son mi­grat­ed to Snou­ton. Hor­ri­ble con­di­tions. The tini­est pos­si­ble house. Fur­ries every­where. Uh, the mer­ci­less fate of the beg­gars!

And the son, named Frin, though every­body called him Weasel (how he got this moniker is a sep­a­rate and fun­ny sto­ry, but in essence it was all about that long, re­mark­ably mo­bile body on dis­pro­por­tion­ate­ly short legs)... So, the son was hap­py to fi­nal­ly live to­geth­er with his dad­dy, but the dad was still way young. He want­ed to bring in mares and love them hard and loud. It wasn't easy, be­lieve me.

And he couldn't find any de­cent jobs, noth­ing that could put his skills to good use. At least some­times the no­bil­i­ty hired him as an as­sas­sin to shoot some lousy fur­ry ho­bos. He was a mas­ter at that. Twang twang! He made a hun­dred gold or two, but still stub­born­ly kept search­ing for a place in this life for him­self and his son. He was a dream­er, you see?

And then the fa­ther got some per­fect guid­ance from an el­ven pros­ti­tute. He quick­ly fig­ured it out. Made some con­nec­tions. Moved first to Sup­ple­ham, then to Nip­pledell to the elves.

In a cou­ple of months the en­tire el­ven king­dom talked about Weasel. They per­formed in every big and small city.

So what's the point of this cu­ri­ous fa­ble? Us, cen­taurs, live through dif­fi­cult times and some­times we have to take ex­treme mea­sures to feed our fam­i­lies and even to sur­vive at all.

See al­so