They stop at another bar in the next town to pick up some more characters

For those of you who are already daydreaming the romantic notion that your grandfather, a loveable old cusker* with a fedora hat and a raspy voice is reading this story to you as a grandchild, and that may or not be because your own life involved something much less romantic involving the Kent state shooting, then let yourself wander into a childlike state, as you sit upon Grandpa's lap with no fear of Grandpa, and maybe you'll ask him, "Grandpa, how did Errol know what to do?"

Grandpa chuckled and looked outside the window, wiping away tears as he thought, and he promised himself this much, one last time, of how the nurse in the English Patient reminded him of his late wife, Melba.

"Grandpa?  How did Errol know what to do?"

Hiding the irritation in his eyes at his own beautiful past being interrupted by such trivialties, Grandpa of course, closed the book and looked at you with adoring eyes, wondering how he could love so decidely, a simple creature like yourself.

"Well, you see, remember when Brynwadir, or whatever her name is, said that wasn't her name?"

"Yes."  Your eyes are blank, innocent and covered in blonde, moppy hair behind a set of spectacles that somehow make those eyes bigger.

"Well, Errol was a clever fellow, and realized that if she wasn't really named Brynwadism, and the lesbian ninja shapechanger..."

"Who?"

"Breadcrumb, sometimes, I get my books confused, the acrobat doppleganger, remember her?"

"Oh, yes, grandpa!", was your excited exclaim, "I wonder, is she evil?  Is she?"

"Well, hold your horses, little one.  Let me answer your question.  She basically told Errol point blank, or right to his face that his name wasn't Brywardaphile either, and it was at the end of a momentous event.  In fact, didn't it say that that was when Errol knew what they had in common?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's how he knew."

Surprised at your empty look, Grandpa does his very best not to get angry and resent the fact that he's still trying to deal with his warbride's recent death.  So as not to upset lovely Grandpa further, let me just tell you that no one in the bar was actually called Brywandil, and that was what clued Errol in that they all belonged together.

So, Errol, the two foot scamp in the crocheted slippers and the poppcock hat with all the fixins, led the twenty five of them to the two closest taverns, clearing bar after bar, in order that he may find the necessary attention.

"Those amongst you that do not call yourself Brywandil, follow me, for greater, gold and glory!"

And soon he had behind him, the hopeful and the hopeless, the successful, the spicy pork skewer makers, the doubtful, the doubted, the doubles, the doughmakers, (Doug),  and all who believed they were, if anything, not named Brywandil, following him, looking to find adventure.  They would in later days, be called a party of adventurers and each of the sixty seven would somehow find a way to bring home pride, salvation and redemption.

And a warning, gentle readers, how it came to pass, may surprise you.

 

 

 

*I'm sure that's a word.  Please let me know what it means.

The End

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