hwango

Harold was born the son of a farmer who was himself the son of a farmer's son in a chain of farmers and sons probably dating back to the origins of agriculture itself. Like most children in their teens, Harold did not see this sort of thing as a proud family tradition to be cherished and preserved through the ages. Rather, he viewed it as evidence that his ancestors were a bunch of boring people descended from other boring people whose descendants were destined to do only boring things.

So, one bright summer morning, Harold ran away from home and apprenticed himself to Vvalvadov the Blackhearted as an evil minion.

At first, the differences between working on a farm and working as a necromancer's minion were not as great as he'd expected. Instead of feeding cows, pigs, and chickens he was feeding crocodiles, slavering hounds, and infinitely more terrifying chickens. Instead of chopping firewood he was chopping up corpses...and firewood. Instead of patching holes in the roof of a barn he was patching holes in the roof of an evil tower. Well, that job at least had elements of horrifying danger and excitement, since he was hundreds of feet in the air and periodically menaced by enormous vultures with glowing red eyes.

But at least the chores on the farm made sense! Here...well, he'd never seen Vvalvadov actually use the crocodiles for anything. You couldn't even put them in the moat, because the piranha would eat them. Harold didn't mind the evil nearly nearly as much as he minded the impractical absurdity of so many of the things that he was assigned to do.

One dreary morning, Ungar, the current master henchman, came to Harold with several jars filled with a pungent gray ooze.

"You'll be painting this over all the exposed mortar in the walls," he said to Harold. "If you have any left over just smear it all around the base of the tower. Oh, and be careful - it's highly explosive. Keep it away from flames, heat, and sudden movements. And don't let the dogs eat any."

"What about the crocodiles?" Harold asked.

"Don't let the dogs eat those either," Ungar said.

"Wait a minute, why are we smearing explosive goo all over the tower?" Harold asked, confused. He'd learned early on that it was a bad idea to question orders, but this time he couldn't help himself.

"We're rigging the place to explode. You know, in case the Master is defeated by the heroes coming later tonight."

"What?!"

"Don't you know anything about Evil Fortresses? If their master is defeated they're supposed to explode, crumble, erupt, turn back into an ordinary pumpkin, or whatever. It's just how these things are done! If Vvalvadov wins we just scrape the stuff back off tomorrow morning. We've done this half a dozen times before. He's come out on top every time so far, but there's no sense taking chances."

Harold ran all the way back to the farm.