Fear me. And my fairytale.

Story from the fairytale generator here.

In the bowels of the valleys where I live the smell of anger comes in bouts. The smell rides down from the mountain sides on great horses wearing heavy armor and large blades; the smell drives at us with the sound of hooves pounding on soft valley soil. My father could scent this smell twenty-four hours before it came, but when he was hungry for something angry, to him the smell of war was everywhere. The day he left to find the source of the scent was the day he left me all alone.

I begin with my end.

I am Multhan, the Groc of the Peat.
Fear Me.

Today I am dead. I’ve been dead for nearly two thousand years.
It’s boring being dead so long- there is nothing to do but lie here at the bottom of the peat and rot into nothing and I finished doing that after only a few years. So I was thinking that maybe I’d try and pass the rest of eternity by surfing the net and keeping a blog. Beats watching bacteria divide- I always know how that turns out- two identical bacteria. So unimaginative.

More later.