I'd like to note that writing one of these every day is hard. I really don't want to do it every night. When I do want to, it's early in the day, and Elphaba and Met will read it before it's posted. Thus, I am tortured by a device of my own design. Know ye that blood is shed daily to get you your daily dose of music and a tale! Know ye that Reogan writes with his lifeblood, and shall soon perish! Know ye, and be ashamed!
Friendship is an odd thing. Unlikely friendships are even odder. Such a friendship can be formed, say, when a hero destroys an entire tribe of evildoers, and hears a sound from a nearby building. Suspecting one last archer, readying an arrow, he darts behind a nearby boulder, and readies his still-bloody sword, and crouches behind his shield. He kicks a rock, and it collides loudly with a bubbling pot. The pot holds the morning stew, and the head of the creature that had been stirring it. The hero silently charged into the building and cut aside a curtain. He swings his sword downward, and barely manages to stop. Within the room is a crib, which holds a softly cooing babe. The hero, the same one who slayed the creature's village, reaches out a hand. The infant grasps his thumb, and a true friendship begins.