I think I'll just do eating-themed stories for the rest of the week, in honor of the somewhat silly holiday which approaches here in the States.
“Your tine is nearly up!” cried Dartmoor, swinging his silver-handled spoon.
Pitch ducked neatly. “You’ll find me more than a mouthful,” he retorted. “Taste your just desserts!” His return swipe nearly speared his opponent’s hat upon his middle prong.
“I’ll serve you on a platter!” Dartmoor snarled.
They leapt and swung, but their blows impacted not upon their respective foes. Instead, with a solid clang, each was intercepted by tines blunt, short, and softly curved, wielded with consummate skill.
“Why do you battle, brethren?” asked the soft voice. “Come, let us put aside our quarrels.”
“Lord Runcible!” they cried simultaneously.
Whimpers From My Bed Of Woe
5 hours ago