#MenageMonday, week 49


The Feast of St. Tormund was a raucous one, but this year’s festivities had been especially lively. The queen had just given birth to a son, and the king was celebrating as all men do, boasting of the conquests he would make in the name of the new prince. He and his men had been more than a little drunk when his boat had set off, however, and the only conquests he’d made before returning to home were a collection of tiny sculls the massive warship had run through while leaving port.

Surrounding the ship, the men pointed at the royal crest, a gargantuan skull cleaved in two by a bloody axe, which was now surrounded by bits of sail and wood from the craft which had, until recently, been training vessels for the kingdom. A lesser king would have taken out his embarrassment on others, but as the smirks turned to guffaws, and the guffaws to belly laughs, he joined in. Years later, belly full of ale, he was the one to tell the story of how he became King Scull Splitter. “What can I do,” he was heard to say, “let my greatest triumph go untold?”


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