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With peace and normality returning to the lands of Furope for the first time since High King Nbowa took the throne, the average townsfolk were completely blissful, to the point that it bordered on ignorance, as they walked around the thriving kingdom of Lionopolis.

What was once a small and contained city that surrounded Castle Lion was beginning to sprawl, and suburban communities and cottages were popping up anywhere that people could find the space to build them. Even the Dirtscribe, Joshiah, was able to upgrade his living space, as the slums outside of the city were being bought and sold by rich land owners, knowing that people would pay top dollar to live that much closer to the famous and totally popufur king.

I almost made it through the introduction without putting a pun in there. I just couldn't do it, man. I'm sorry. Kinda.

Anyway.

For once, the oracles weren't predicting any sort of savage attack, the coyotes were still, even after all of these months, busy with Coyotesbane, and those who would stand against High King Nbowa were now either his loyal knights, or had been defeated by the Great Knights of Furope. It was a time that in which a peaceful people could truly thrive, and this time, without the fear of society crumbling around them before the moon came to herald the coming of night.

"A fine day to you, sir!" High King Nbowa greeted yet another smiling member of his fair city, as he walked through the main atrium of downtown Lionopolis. He was escorted by the Great Knights of Furope, and wherever they went, benevolence shined through the people as if they were angels from above. It was a scene that was once thought impossible in the war-torn continent of Furope, which, in those days, was known as Liongaea, because High King Nbowa was then, and still is, entirely arrogant and full of himself.

"Greetings from the king himself? Truly this be a blessed day!" the jackal said with a stupefied smile, never having seen the High King in person before to know that he actually existed. It was true that High King Nbowa had become something of a legend in his own right, and even the Great Knights who sat his table were considered legendary people. Myths of their deeds were piling up by the day, and Joshiah, The Dirtscribe, was left to try and chronicle all of them, despite having nothing more than a quill pen and an endless supply of old, scratchy paper.

Huscoon the Stats Guy walked alongside his king, still being regarded as perhaps the strongest and most dangerous of the Great Knights, next to Lykanos, of course. "It would seem that you've picked a fine day for your unusual tradition, High King Nbowa," he commented, as the entire troop of royalty came upon a series of different tables and booths in the courtyard, less than a mile away from the watchful gaze of Castle Lion. "There's only a 3.47% chance that anything is going to go wrong today!"

"Better than 50/50 odds if you ask me," the lion replied, snickering at the immediate and apparent frustration of his knight. "Truly, however, with numbers like those, I'm sure that our festival will be a complete success!"

Lionopolis was home to some of the most unusual people in the entire continent, and of course, High King Nbowa was by far the weirdest, no matter what that recent Twitter poll says about me. It's totally slanted because he's the most popular one out of all of us, and I'm nowhere near that weird. Let's be real, here.

In the realm of this fantasy, however, being the king of a certain land, or in High King Nbowa's case, the entirety of Furope...or...Liongaea or whatever...you had the right to declare a festival whenever you damn well felt like it, and both the theme and content were entirely up to your command. Whether it was because the (sort of) benevolent king had weird taste, or because a certain zebra really doesn't like me that much, the theme of the current and coming festival was... onions.

The entirety of Lionopolis was filled with a stench that could never be ignored, one that would last for at least several days after the festival was over, and despite the fact that people's eyes ran over with tears like a waterfall pouring over the side of a cliff, no one actually complained or seemed to mind too much. People were in attendance from all over the vast continent, drawing all different kinds of species together in a way that they'd never mingled before. According to legend, this was the very first of a strange gathering known as "Conventions," and though this particular one didn't last, the fur-bearing creatures of the continent of Furope eventually spread all over the world and took the tradition with them to all corners of the globe, attempting to establish their own "conventions" wherever they went, and usually failing, unless someone cool was running it.

Even with his rampant popularity, High King Nbowa wasn't able to overcome the singular flaw of his own Onion Festival, despite the fact that so many people were taking part in the activities and enjoying themselves.

The Great Knights of Furope splintered off as one might have expected they would; Huscoon the Stats Guy spent hours at a booth playing "Guess the weight of the onions," Atimist the Strong But Very Small was picked up and tossed into a basket of onions because of his tiny size and the white decorations on his armor, Bluemoon the Overbearing actually took residence behind one of the booths and began cooking up a number of different onion based delicacies, Lykanos the Wolvenmurr took a seat near said booth and started munching down on whatever he could get his paws on, Chutora the Momma's Boy took almost all of his money and lost it on games of skill and chance involving onions, Doxial the Nibbler nibbled everyone, and Arcturus the Bolton took his place on a small stage that was set up for the festival, singing songs that praised onions for their delicious flavor and nutritional value.

...That was easily the longest, singular sentence I've ever written, and it had to do with onions. I hate onions. You'd better be thankful for this, you stripey asshat.

"It's nice for my Great Knights to be able to rest and relax in peace for once," High King Nbowa suggested, as he found an open dining table in the middle of the festival grounds and took his crown down for a moment. The years of being even more popular than he was before, and all of the destruction that was caused by the wars to rise to his kingship always weighed heavily on his mind, giving him a depth of character that only two or three other characters in the entire series actually contained, and even that was a bit of a stretch, because we all know he actually loves the attention and would totally go to war if he would be king at the end of it. "Perhaps, this time, the wars will come to an end, and the prophecy of a decade of peace will come to fruition after all!"

"That prophecy requires the death of the one," came a familiar voice, as it turned out that all kinds were welcome at the Onion Festival. Standing in his best robes and sporting a wide, shit-eating grin was Lan or Gren, having decided to take a small vacation from his duties in the Mystical Community to stop by the festivities.

"Lan or Gren! It's truly great to see that you could make it to my first festival!" High King Nbowa greeted him, before leaning forth and latching his jaws down around the zebra's wrist. "Haslfa uoh dunf?"

Lan or Gren narrowed his eyes down at the High King, though he was used to this kind of behavior from him, by now, and even understood the language of a lion with a mouthful of meat. "I'm doing just fine, High King...or I was, before you decided to try and eat me for literally the fifteenth time. Isn't there a plethora of food around this place? Do you really have to resort to trying to eat me?"

High King Nbowa unlatched his jaw and smiled sheepishly. "Well, y'know. Onions just don't have the same kick for me as raw meat. It's a personal taste thing!"

"Thanks for the compliment...I think," Lan or Gren replied dryly. "I see that you're having an onion tasting contest at your festival! Did you already pick out the judges, or would you need help from a member of the Mystical Community, like myself?"

"Do we have to pay you?"

"Of course. Rather exorbitantly, at that."

"Not a damned chance, then!" High King Nbowa shot back, proving just how much of a tightwad he could be. "We have a former member of the Mystical Community living right here in our own Lionopolis, and I bet he'll even do it for free!"

...No. No I will not. I will not do this. I've suffered enough in these stories. Onions are my least favorite food of all time. I hate onions more than I hate far left progressives. I hate onions more than I hate Batman. I freaking hate onions more than I hate all of the lobster jokes that get thrown at me every day!

"Oh, of course! Joshiah the Dirtscribe would be perfect for such an activity! He's got a very refined palette, or so I'm told."

You. Mother. Fucker.

"And he kind of owes me a favor, since we ended up pardoning him for all of his crimes against the kingdom in his recent exploits...and he doesn't really make any money, so I can't imagine him complaining about a free meal!"

"Would you like me to send for him?"

"No, no...I've got a little messenger to send his way. It seems to be the only way to get him to come out of his house, lately."

**

Writing the day away as he often did, guided by nothing more than the blessed rays of the afternoon sun pouring through his window like the golden eyes of the gods, Joshiah the Dirtscribe simply loved to have his peace and quiet, now that it seemed the Great Knights of Furope were out of adventures to drag him along with, and the continent was entirely at peace.

Knock knock knock

So, naturally, there had to be some sort of interruption to his creative process literally every day of his life, and this one was no exception.

"All right, I'm coming!" he yelled out, walking down the stairs of his small, cozy house. It wasn't much to speak of, but it was a whole hell of a lot nicer than the straw hut he once lived in, and it even had a small alcove upstairs where he could write in total peace, when he didn't feel like answering the door.

As soon as he opened it, however, he couldn't have been happier that he did.

"W-well hello, Roosles. To what do I owe this most pleasurable honor?"

There was a quick roll of the eyes from Roosles the Desert Spy, and as usual, that was the only thing visible on her person. Her tight, body-hugging leathers left little to the imagination, but the cloak that draped over her body helped to keep her body modest, and entirely hidden from view at night.

During the day, she stuck out like a sore thumb, and was likely baking to death under the rays of the sun.

"I'm here to deliver a message, Dirtscribe..."

"A message of love, no doubt?"

"A message from High King Nbowa, which I'm only delivering because he financed my trip to Fenice for doing so."

Joshiah the Dirtscribe flattened his ears. "...O-oh. I see. What does King Smelly Shorts want from me now?"

"He calls upon you, and you alone to be the taste tester for the Onion Festival of Lionopolis, this year."

"...No."

"Or you'll be hanged."

"...Okay. Hang me."

" What?"

"Onions are the fruit of the devil, come up from the pits of hell to sprout through the ground and spread misery wherever they go! They stink, they make everyone cry, and their taste can only be described as that of a sweaty, unwashed armpit!"

"Y'know, I actually kinda like onions."

"So why don't you do it, then?"

"Royal decree. Besides, I'm going to Fenice! I'm sure they have something better to do there!"

"Fenice. Are you saying that wrong, or...?"

"Of course not. It's the capital city of fennecs! Since I'm half fennec fox, I need to make the pilgrimage at some point in my life, and this is the best chance I have to afford it."

"...Right. I knew that."

The puns are really starting to rub off on me. Thanks, Nbowa.

Roosles the Desert Spy whirled around. "Who said that?"

"N-no one, never mind. I guess I accept the stupid task...I'll be there in like, three minutes. It's right up the block anyway. Why couldn't High King Booty Stank come down here and ask me himself?"

"Dunno; don't care! I'm off to Fenice, baby! Wooooohooo!"

Before Joshiah the Dirtscribe could tell Roosles the Desert Spy of his love for her (despite her already knowing of it,) she threw down a smoke bomb and was gone in a flash, moving as quickly across the outskirts of town as the dancing winds themselves. She was gorgeous and fluid in the way she moved, and her body was simply astounding as the leather armor struggled to contain her sizable breasts and her curvy, delicious rump, an-

Ahem.

"Well then," Joshiah the Dirtscribe groaned, as he closed the door to his house and started walking up the street, through the outskirts of the Onion Festival, "I might as well get this over with...the sooner, the better."

The closer he came to the festival, the more he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. From the sound of people biting into onion shells and crunching them along their fangs, he could hear the voices of the demons being released, and deep inside, he worried that perhaps this onion based invasion was going to be the one that finally managed to destroy Castle Lion and put an end to the reign of High King Nbowa.

If not for the way that he'd been treated over the last two years and nearly killed for treason, he might have felt a little badly about the fact.

"I see you've received my message!" High King Nbowa greeted the Dirtscribe, as his Great Knights continued to enjoy the rest of the activities of the festival. This story is hardly about them, anyway, and I don't have nearly the word count available this time to go elaborate on every little thing that they're doing while the main plot moves forward.

They're doing stuff, okay? Use your imagination! I'm not an artist! I don't need another reminder that I'll never be as cool or well-known as they are!

Oh. You're not complaining. Good! Uh...the Great Knights were all doing stuff, like I was saying, and High King Nbowa was quick to escort Joshiah the Dirtscribe right through the very center of the festival. Games, booths and craft fairs were on all sides of the giant, social courtyard that hosted all of the major events of Lionopolis, and people were flooding the streets with such volume that while it was almost impossible to move around without being bumped into, it was literally impossible to escape the stink of onion breath, something that left Joshiah the Dirtscribe to plug his poor, sensitive nose as he followed the decorated lion.

"It's so wonderful that you agreed to accept the post of Onion Judge. That's a real step up from Dirtscribe, isn't it?"

"I think that's all a matter of perspective, High King Shorts I can't even smell right now."

"Of course you can't! My shorts are as clean as they ever were!"

"Trust me, your highness, that wasn't a compliment," Joshiah the Dirtscribe explained. "Just how many onions do I have to taste, anyway?"

"Only three, but you must take a full bite of each one. These are the best onions that our kingdom has to offer, and with your enriched palette, we believe you to be the best man for the job!"

Joshiah the Dirtscribe shook his head. "Forgive me for saying you're wrong, High King Onion Breath, but my palette really only extends to scotch and things of that nature. I don't think I would be so great at tasting onions...they kinda cause me to vomit."

"Are you allergic?"

"Well, no, bu-

"Then get over it and take your seat. These people have been anxiously waiting for your decree!"

Caught off guard from the terrible stench that was wafting through the crowd, Joshiah the Dirtscribe didn't realize that the sea of bodies that he'd navigated was actually the crowd around the center stage. Arcturus the Bolton was just taking his final bow as a table was hoisted up onto the stage, carrying with it three large, disgusting onions of the three main varieties: green, yellow and red.

"Good luck up there!" Arcturus the Bolton mentioned to his old friend, offering him a tight hug that was so long and passionate that it bordered on concerning, as if he knew something that Joshiah the Dirtscribe didn't. "I know the people can be a little overly critical when it comes to judging onions."

"I'm not too worried about it...they all taste the same to me," Joshiah the Dirtscribe admitted.

"Dude, that's racist."

"Racist against what? ONIONS?!"

"Obviously!"

"I think they'll get over it..."

"I sure hope so. Their feelings look slightly hurt," Arcturus the Bolton pointed out as Joshiah the Dirtscribe made his way onto the stage, leaving him to look quizzically at the onions. They sure didn't seem to have feelings.

Because they don't have feelings. They're evil, terrible monsters that sprout from the ground and ruin the flavors of the delicious food around them, and contribute nothing to society, and-

"Uhm...mister judge, sir? We can hear you talking!"

"That isn't me," Joshiah the Dirtscribe said, as he raised his paws to try and quiet the crowd. "Thank you all for coming out to the Onion Festival! I'm your Onion Judge, Joshiah! We have here three...uhm...three...perfectly good specimens of onion, and I'll be giving each one a try to see which is truly the king of the onions! Just keep an eye out for them later, in case they try to overthrow High King Nbowa!"

The nervous, lame joke fell rather flat, and Joshiah the Dirtscribe's ears followed suit shortly thereafter.

In the moments to follow, time stood still, as Joshiah reached out and took one of the onions in his paw. It was the green onion first, and he gulped, trying to keep his stomach inside his body as he brought it to his lips.

There was no judgment of visual appeal when it came to onions; they all looked like demon testicles, so all that mattered to the crowd was taste.

The first, disgusting rush of flavor into Joshiah's maw left him to wince his eyes and twist his face up in discomfort. He took the smallest bite he could while still getting the flesh of the onion, and it was still a struggle to chew and swallow the horrible, disgusting morsel.

"It's...uhm...it's pretty good. Very tangy," Joshiah the Onion Judge muttered, trying to force a delicious sounding word from his maw. They were simply that much more difficult to find, as the taste of onions reminded him of nothing that could ever be called 'delicious.' "Extremely pungent. Doesn't want to get out of my mouth. My eyes are burning. Could someone hand me the next one, please? I can't really see."

"Of course, friend. Here you are..."

Though he could scarcely see, Joshiah the Onion Judge recognized the voice of the person handing him the onion to be Huscoon the Stats Guy. It seemed that he'd already successfully guessed the weight of the bucket of onions using some sort of a complicated and nerdy math algorithm, and now, he stood next to his fellow hybrid, holding up what looked like it might be the red onion.

It wasn't quite a red color, however. It was much closer to scarlet, with what looked like tiny stripes of gray discoloration running across the surface of the onion's skin. It was entirely reminiscent of something that Joshiah thought he knew in another life, but with his vision blurred by the concentrated sin that rained from his eyes, he could only trust in his old friend and take a bite out of the onion, fulfilling his duty to the kingdom...

...One last time.

The bite was every bit as filled with a disgusting burning sensation as the one before it, but this time, Joshiah the Onion Judge couldn't contain his nausea. He barely managed to swallow the bite before his forehead dropped against the wood of the judging table, and his paw went limp, dropping the oddly colored onion to the stage and letting it roll down the stairs and away. A hush of terror fell over the crowd as it became obvious where else the colors had been seen before: in Huscoon the Stats Guy's battle garb. His armor was red, and decorated with gray accents in such a way that everyone had become used to their appearance...but the connection to the onion could be no mistake.

"That's what you get for saying that red and white were almost the same as scarlet and gray! They're totally different!" the hybrid exclaimed, right into the flopped ears of the four-animal hybrid that now sat unconscious in a chair on the stage.

The rest of the Great Knights and castle guards swarmed the stage from either side. "Huscoon the Stats Guy! That onion was meant for the High King, wasn't it?" Lykanos the Wolvenmurr asked. "You were going to attempt to seize power by feeding him the tainted vegetable!"

"Uh...n-no, actually, this one was meant for the coyofolf here."

"Isn't he a joyofolf?"

"Who cares? He got what he deserved for belittling Ohio State University!"

High King Nbowa sighed. "Your old kingdom seriously had the weirdest name, Huscoon the Stats Guy...and you didn't try to kill me, so we can't prosecute you for that, but by the looks of it, you just kinda murdered an innocent civilian."

"He can still be saved!" Lan or Gren declared. "As a member of the Mystical Community-

"Former member."

" What the hell ever! If we can find someone to give him true love's kiss before the onion remains make it to his stomach, he could still survive!"

Atimist the Strong But Very Small tried to pipe up. "Doesn't he have a crush on that kixen girl?"

"He does!" Lan or Gren confirmed. "Good thinking, small fry! All we need to do is send for her, and we can still save him!"

Once again, the ruckus became silent, and High King Nbowa awkwardly poked his pawtips together.

"...What did you guys do to her?"

"N-nothing, nothing at all!" High King Nbowa claimed. "We just kinda gave her tickets...to Fenice...by boat. So she won't be back for about...I dunno...a month, anyway?"

"...Shit."

No kidding, stripes. No kidding.

**

The funeral service was short, at best. Many throughout the kingdom of Lionopolis were still eating up the conflicted rumors that Joshiah the Dirtscribe had tried to commit acts of treason against the High King, and they refused to honor him with a funeral, even though High King Nbowa himself was there, guided on all sides by the remaining Great Knights of Furope.

Huscoon the Stats Guy, for an act of unbridled murder, was given a reduced sentence in the dumpster underneath all of the coyotes, to honor his service to the continent before his misdeed. That reduced sentence, however, was still over a year long, and to this day, at least, the day this was written, no one is sure if he's survived the torture of ten thousand coyotes licking garbage off of his face.

"And yet, here you are, standing in front of me and holding a pen..."

Hours after the ceremony had ended, the sun had fallen below the mountains to the East, and the few who knew the true character of Joshiah had gone home, it seemed there was a stirring, but none were around to see it. They only knew that they'd seen a casket lowered into the ground and buried, with an obnoxiously long headstone that read "Joshiah Warbaum, The Arbiter of Large and Powerful Fantasy Weapons, Dirtscribe, and Onion Judge. What a clusterfuck!"

"That's right. It's the Quill of Destiny...and it's your turn to wield it."

"But...you're dead. They just lowered you into the ground."

"Don't believe everything you hear or see," came a familiar voice, one that everyone in the story knew. "So long as you hold the Quill of Destiny in your paws, you can rewrite your fate, within reason."

"So why have you allowed yourself to suffer so much over the recent years?"

"Because...it made people happy. It makes them laugh and smile, and if I were truly upset, I could have stopped it any time I wanted."

"Maybe you should have stopped it before Huscoon killed you."

"Good call, but I'm alive again, so...no harm, no foul. I've got a new adventure to embark on, now. What becomes of Furope is in your paws...with that quill, you can write the destinies of every person on this continent, change the fates and move the very stars above our heads...but be warned: the Quill of Destiny is a living, breathing artifact. What you do wrong to others will done ten full to you, and what you do right for others, you do out of the kindness of your heart, for it may never be repaid."

"I don't think I'm ready for this kind of responsibility, Joshiah."

"Sure you are," he said with a quick, kindly smile. He brushed the last of the dirt out of his overgrown, white tresses and walked off into the moonlight, leaving the kingdom of Lionopolis behind and heading for the mountains, to the undiscovered lands of Furasia. "If you're ever in doubt...just take that quill and write me a letter. I'll be back in an instant, so long as you just will it."

The orange stripes that made him so visible in the dark soon faded, and in the hands of a shrouded, dark figure was the power to shape the very ground they stood upon...the power to change Furope forever.