A long.. long time ago, in a distant galaxy, was the planet “Cud”. On this ancient planet lived the warlike race of the Cowfolk, a race of people who had evolved and broken into two major groups.
The first group, the “Beefers”, were a very rough and barbaric race. They were the type who enjoyed loud music and a mug of ale, with a serving wench on their lap.. even the women. Their leader, known as “Mike The Big Tough Guy” was a large man of great poundage.
He had unkept hair that flew wildly in the wind, and a cute, wellgroomed moustashe. The Beefers worked hard and played hard.. and smelled. The tavern was alive with music, the thumps of dancing and clapping, and cheers of joy. Their steeds, consisting mostly of Longhorn and Black Anguses, mooed calmly outside, having had their reigns tied to those horizontal postthings you see in all those western movies.
Mike pushed the serving girl from his lap and awkwardly staggered to stand atop his table. The music and dancing immediately stopped in respect. “If it’s a war the Milkers want,” he slurred, tipping this way and that, almost losing his balance. “Then it’s a war they’ll get.” His statement was met with a round of deafening cheers, which soon died back down. “You are all people of war.. and when we clash tomorrow, I want you to do what you do best. I want you to destroy whoever gets in your way.” Another round of cheers exploded, then died down. “Tomorrow, milk will be released from the confines of their bodies.. it will flow through o’er the plains like a river.. and will dye the moon white!” He held up his large tankard of ale to the ceiling. “We will show our true selves to The Great One In The Sky..we will show our Lord, the mighty Black Angus, that we are worthy of him! To YOU, my Lord!” Mike lowered his arm and swilled the remainder of the ale. With the backward tossing of his head causing unconsciousness, Mike lost his balance and fell backwards, crashing down heavily onto a nearby table, cracking it in half. The tavern broke into wild cheers of excitement.. Mike had aroused their carnal lust for milk, and they poured out of the small inn and into the dark streets, almost tasting the upcoming hour of battle. The second, the Milkers, were a much more gentle people.
They only warred when they absolutely had to, and prefered to spin yarn, play their lutes, and had a habit of wandering aimlessly about the town, reciting poetry. Love and nature were constantly in the air, even on the brink of war. “But will it HOLD?” Fred asked the blacksmith. Fred The NotSoStrong But Very Nice And A Swell Person was the official leader.
His people wanted to add “Good Smelling” to his name, but decided that such a length would just be plain silly. “Aye, it’ll hold,” the blacksmith snapped back, almost sounding offended. “I’ve been using this armour for as long as Ij can remember, and it’s never done me wrong before.” They were looking over one of the plates used in the armour for the cows when they go into battle. Tradiationally, the armour would consist of several plates, covering almost the entire body of the cow. The udders, being on of the most sensitive parts of the beast, would have a coating of chainmail lying under a coat of platemail. “Go on,” the blacksmith encouraged Fred.
“Go on, take your best shot at it.” Fred looked at the blacksmith for a moment before taking a step back, drawing a mace from a nearby wall, and striking the armour with all his force. Colourful sparks flew from the point of impact, but upon inspection, the armour remained completely unscathed. “Very impressive,” Fred said, stroking the point of impact with his fingers to feel for any damage, of which he could find none. “Very impressive, indeed.” “And you ask if it’ll hold,” the blacksmith mocked him. “Well, that first sword you made me snapped in half when I tripped over it,” Fred explained, standing up straight.
“That’s got nothin’ to do with it,” the blacksmith yelled. “It was faulty metal, I tell you.. NOT my work.. look, the Beefers are likely going to attack at dawn. DO you, or do you NOT want my armour?” Fred stayed silent for a moment.
“Of course I do,” Fred said. “And your payment will arrive by your waking time tomorrow.” “So be it,” the blacksmith said, turning and continuing to hammer out the large sheet of redhot armour which had only moments before been in the blazing fire. Fred looked at his back for a moment before turning and walking out of the large room. “Put back the mace,” the blacksmith said, still hammering, and not having turned around. “How about you throw it in for free?” Fred asked. “On the wall,” the blacksmith said.
“You may be my leader, but I’ve got to make my own money, y’know..” Fred placed the mace back on the wall and walked out. “Cheeky bastard,” the blacksmith mumbled. Mike’s eyes flew open suddenly, and he abruptly sat up in his bed. He looked around the dark room quickly, and just had time to recognize his surroundings as his room before his head began to pound with a hangover. He flopped onto his back again, breathing a large sigh of relief.
The past few hours were a complete blur with small clips of memory in them. He saw a lot of ale, and a lot of women. He barely remembered standing up on the table, and all those cheers he received from his people.. how he’d made a great speech about the upcoming battle. His happy expression turned to one of concern.
The battle. His thoughts of a wonderful, drunken, wenchfilled night were disrupted by the impeding thoughts of the battle. He had promised his warriors that they would win an easy victory, when he wasn’t certain of it himself. He didn’t want to let them down, but had no guarantee of victory. Or perhaps he did. His smile returned as he sluggishly crawled from the bed, lighting candle and leaving his room.
“I wish to win the battle tomorrow,” Mike explained to the sorcerer through the wisps of smoke rising from the cauldron. The room smelled of spices and odd elixers, and the air was almost alive with magic. “I want you to create a storm, the likes of which have never been seen before. Can you do it?” The sorcerer remained quiet behind the rising smoke, his ultrahigh back collar and slickedback blond hair making him look so damn errie, I just can’t describe him. His eyes beamed into Mike’s, sending a shiver to his very soul.
“Are you certain that is what you want?” The sorcerer asked in a very monotone voice almost inhuman. “What will happen if you do?” Mike asked excitedly. “Will it work? Can you tell me?” The sorcerer rem …
