epic fantasy story here
Let me pitch you an idea:
Dusk. A hot night. The doorbell rings. It is me. I am dressed as a wizard. Or rather, I am dressed in my normal clothes. Because I am a wizard. You are a wizard, too, I tell you. Your real mother and father were wizards. You are not just a normal bullshit wizard, either; you are the one extremely special wizard with a crooked eyebrow or something who is prophesied to save the world of wizarding from another, also much-ballyhooed, slightly less special but evil wizard. The breakdown in wizard specialness goes: all other wizards < evil wizard < you. It’s too bad you’re a girl because you would have gotten so much wizard pussy. Your real parents are shams and the people who actually gave birth to you, or the woman who did and the guy who popped in her after one too many wizard meads, they were powerful sorcerors and etc.
Come with me, I will say, and outside is parked a pegasus. Two pegasuses. the one for you has been customized with an awesome panel airbrushed on the side; I would say a chick with big tits in a chainmail bikini waving a spear on top of a polar bear but that’s probably not the kind of shit you would like. This is why I need to get to know you better, you know. But I would have done my best to outfit the pegasus according to your imagined tastes. We mount our otherworldy steeds and sail effortlessly and powerfully into the moonlight. Somehow a soundtrack is playing. Richard Wagner’s Entry of the Gods into Valhalla. Say what you will about his political beliefs, the man understood majesty. If you ask me what the music is I answer you, making sure to say “Rick-Hard” in a real German-sounding way, like Udo Kier. But I’m not gay.
We ride on into the night and suddenly after a cloudbank the landscape below is like none you’ve ever seen before. Looming jagged mountains with shapes no earthly power could have created, at once beautiful and foreboding, kind of like one of those old Yes album covers from before they sucked. Atop the highest peak, shrouded in fangs of cloud, is a tower, a castle, stone heaped upon stone by untold eons of forgotten hands. This, I tell you, is your new home. It has a name like a newfangled pharmaceutical for some feminine problem would have. Sylestria or something. Inside the society of wizards awaits, chanting your true name, which resembles a disease wiped out in the 1920’s, except for a few pockets in like, Gabon. Dipthyneria, thank the gods you are here because tonight is the night the evil wizard has arisen, and his attack on Sylestria has begun. Dragons and griffins and cockatrices are dive bombing and climbing the walls and legions of cruel sorcerors conjure lightning and flames. But what can I do, you ask– I’m just an ordinary woman!
No. Look inside yourself. The greatest power comes from the humblest of us and etc., and as the evil wizard whose name is a really obvious quasi-pun like the type used by George Lucas rises a mile tall in his hideous demonic form to strike the castle with his fist that looks all trippy like aurora borealis and suddenly the voice of your true mother is in your heart and your eyes blast open with lasers and sparks and flames and the evil wizard has a brief “what the fuck” pout before imploding, loudly, into blackness. The wizards cheer until one sees you collapsing; they rush to your side but the world is fading before your eyes and your last breath leaves your lips with the name of some prior plot element, and there is an overlong pause, sad music… until a faint elated voice cries “she’s alive!”
When you awake, I am still at your door. You are back in your normal clothes, and not one second has passed.
But we have totally boned.
Or we could just get coffee. How about it