The Brief Epic of Gilliard

	The realm of Egnalme was never renowned for its rustic vistas nor for its charming citizens. Nothing of much consequence ever happened there and, while it was a peaceful territory, nobody really paid it much mind and left it pretty much alone. It happened however, that one day a stranger came to Egnalme. On his head he wore a large purple hat with a wide, soaring brim and a peacock feather in it. The people had never seen anything like him before and an expectant silence followed him as he strode confidently and quietly into the center of town.
With a flourish of his purple robes and a tip of his enormous royal cap, he poised himself on a platform so that everyone could see and raised his hand to the sky. "By decree of his most excellent highness, the King of Kilmaon, this land is to be evacuated immediately!" he proclaimed."Even now, an unnamed foe prowls the territories to the North and devours entire townships without mercy and without provocation. Everyone is to gather their belongings and head southward. The king's men wait there to take you to safety." With that final word, the stranger spun quickly around and disappeared into a cloud of violet mist, vanishing before their very eyes. Someone, somewhere applauded, loudly.
	The people of Egnalme dispersed slowly, shocked by this jarring apparition, and piled their meager belongings into rickety grain carts. As the sun rose in the sky they left one by one down no path in particular. To this day, even the keenest trackers have not been able to determine what became of these people. Weeks passed and clouds began gathering overhead. The countryside took on a greenish hue cast by a startling olive sky. Deep rumblings echoed from underground in the middle of the day. The grass that once covered the hills in a verdant blanket withered into dust.
Through this all, a young boy named Gilliard sat upon a great tree stump in his field on the southern fringes of Egnalme.He tirelessly watched his flocks of mingo birds in the valley below and kept vigilant watch even as the skies overhead paled into their sickly green. At night sometimes, he saw shadows moving along the dusty, rutted road on the horizon but nobody had visited him in over two weeks. He sat with a furrowed brow, hunched over the steep precipice overlooking his domain. Could it be that his flock was even now getting thinner and fewer? He loathed to think it.
	One day when the sun was slicked over with a pale cast of olive, a small voice came to Gilliard's ears. "Gilliard," it said."Gilliard, you must rise up and defend your holdings." The young boy looked all around him for the source of these words and spied a little lambsnail creeping over the brink of the cliff toward him. "Why, lambsnail?" asked Gilliard. "The town is abandoned," replied the lambsnail." The land is losing hope against a foreign ailment. It devours entire townships, withers the grasses, and salts the ground I tread." It let out a tiny cough as it said this."You must go and determine the cause of this plague. You alone can stop it." Thanking the lambsnail for its help, Gilliard rose from his stump and leapt down the steep bank to his flock, whistling to them.
He slid down the rocky walls of the valley and hit the ground at a full run. The ground below him shook and a deep rumble broke through the rocks.His flock fled terrified in all directions, flapping their flightless wings in a desperate attempt to reach the safety of the sky. Gilliard threw himself onto the back of one of the mingo birds and with a loud shout, spurred it forward, away from the cliffs. The valley recceeded behind him as his bird strode stealthily across the countryside. The underground roar ceased and a disquieting quiet took its place. Gilliard rode until night fell and a green moon rose on the horizon.He looked about him but could not tell where he was.He was vaguely aware that he had travelled South, but this country was unfamiliar. The air carried a faint scent of lemon.
	He tied his steed to a gnarled tree and slept restlessly by its side.When morning came again, Gilliard found himself lost in a murky, pea-soup fog. Groping for support, he gradually found himself at the entrance of a great, dark cave. A citrus wind exhaled from its throat as Gilliard peered into the depths. The cave interior was pocked with craters and slash marks. The floor was buried under piles of jagged rubble. Low growls clashed against the black stone and Gilliard swallowed hard, steeling himself for whatever may be inside. His cloak caught the wind and flared out behind him. Something was approaching.
Suddenly, a giant creature burst forth from the dark, swirling fog. It raced forward in long strides, its neck craned back like a snake coiled to strike. Its tail flashed like lightning and smote the rocks around it with a deafening boom. Its cry was like thunder. Gilliard froze, petrified by the imposing visage. "This is surely a god of wrath!" he wailed, drawing his cloak tightly around him. with his empty hand he took up a heavy stone from the cave floor. The darkness deepened as smoke from the being's nostrils fanned out to the cave walls. It stood for a moment, glaring into Gilliard, perhaps in contempt, perhaps in confusion that such a small morsel had entered into its domain.
	A thunderclap broke the temporal hesitation and the creature lunged for Gilliard with a slash of its clawed foot. Reflexively, Gilliard hefted the rock to his shoulder and cast it with all his might at the deadly scythe foot. The rock sailed past, missing completely and Gilliard was thrown to the ground as the creature's claws sank into his side. But he was not crushed. Gilliard looked through watering eyes and met the astonished stare of a strange man in a large purple hat. The stone lay heavy on his other foot and a visible grimace of pain skewed his face. The illusion of the thunder creature quickly evaporated into a fringe of green steam and the strange man shot Gilliard a defeated scowl before crumbling to ashes before his very eyes.
Outside the cave, the green skies had cleared and Gilliard stumbled back to his mingo bird who regarded him with lazy complacency.Heaving himself upon its back, Gilliard aimed his steed northward and galloped triumphantly back to his valley on the fringes of Egnalme where he tended his flock in peace ever after.

A Special Note on The Brief Epic of Gilliard:

This story was written backward in a way. The illustrations you've no doubt puzzled over came first. This story began as a series of random line doodles which were then glared at, studied, and rearranged to form a loose plot. After about half an hour of planning the course of events to take place, Gilliard was written beginning at illustration number one and continuing to the end. This method of writing was a refreshing break from my usual bad habit of trying to stare down a blank page and rip a story out of it. In the case of Gilliard, the plot flowed more freely onto the page than the usual trickle that I write at. If you've ever found yourself stuck on a creative writing project, I highly recommend this approach to stir the brain up and keep things new.