Father and SonOnce 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.