It was crowded in the beautifully decorated church. Stained-glass windows broke the light into a thousand colors—green hues dancing in the back, deepening to reds and golds in the front, where the founding story of the Gatefleets was painted in shimmering panels.

  At the altar stood a creature. He wore a black-and-green military uniform, complete with a pointy camouflage hat twice the size of his beard—exactly as described in the holy texts. He spoke with fire in his voice, fury in his fists.

  They were angry. They had had enough.

  “This has gone on far too long!” His voice rang sharp, echoing through the chamber.

  Applause. Cheering.

  “Our likeness—blasphemed. Ridiculed.” He punched the air for emphasis. The crowd surged to its feet, shouting in agreement.

  “Put in gardens... as repellents.” He paced to the edge of the platform, sneering. “In unflattering poses, I might add.”

  The crowd howled. He nodded, pleased.

  “To scare pigeons. And vermin.” He turned, striding to the other side of the dais so all could see him. “With wheelbarrows. With fishing rods.”

  Booing erupted. “Like we fish,” he added, voice low and bitter.

  He spoke in sharp, deliberate bursts—each sentence a spark, each pause a match dropped on dry hay.

  “If we caught a fish... it would surely be the death of us.”

  Laughter erupted. He mimicked being yanked across a pond by a fish three times his size—slipping once, twice, thrice in exaggerated pantomime.

  The crowd roared.

  “We draw the line here!” he roared, stomping on the floor to mark an invisible boundary. A few gnomes near the front row gasped in awe at the sheer firmness of his heel.

  “We will not be ridiculed any longer!”

  The crowd erupted into a chant: “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

  The church trembled with bloodlust and tiny boots. An unhinged aura filled the air like spicy incense at a riot.

  “We refuse to be a footnote in the Tall Peoples’ story!”

  He raised both arms, preparing to release his followers upon the world like angry, bearded confetti—

  CRASH.

  Through a high stained-glass window—one depicting the heroic Battle of the Broom Closet—came a silver-haired demigod.

  He was easily ten times the size of the congregation. And also, unmistakably, Reralt.

  He landed flat on his back in the center aisle—his fall cushioned by at least two dozen gnomes, now serving as unwilling holy cushioning.

  Half the room gasped. The other half was already crushed.

  A heartbeat of silence.

  Then, from the opposite window—once a proud rendering of the Miracle of the Mushroom Harvest—came a second crash.

  A bear. Large. Furry. Wounded. And visibly annoyed.

  It landed with a roar and a shower of glass, crushing three pews, four banners, and the Church’s only officially approved choir.

  Reralt needed a second to regain his bearings from the fall. “Teddy got a kick. Excellent.” He was enjoying himself in this life-or-death fight.

  The bear charged again. Reralt threw the animated garden statues at him, one after another. They were filled with a thick, reddish liquid. He hoped it had some magical effect.

  The bear just ripped them apart as they came—like a baseball match where he scored homerun after homerun.

  Narro stood in the windowsill, now devoid of any sophisticated stained glass. “Reralt, where’s Ms. Hacky?”

  Reralt hurled yet another garden statue. It screamed with a high-pitched shriek—like a fire arrow on helium.

  “With the horse,” he called back. “Hurry! I’m running out of statues.”

  Reralt was completely fine with going unarmed, head-to-head with the bear—but still, the sword that cleaved ember red… was good for a ballad later on.

  As he charged, he screamed, “It rhymes with dead!”

  The only gnome still moving was the one who’d stood at the front—the one who had riled the others into a frenzy.

  “The Tall Man, again!” it shrieked in its silly, high voice. “They step on us—again!”

  Defiant and fierce, he stepped toward Reralt, little sleeves rolled up, a tiny dagger in hand.

  Ms. Hacky fell on top of him—leaving only two little hands and two little legs sticking out from beneath the blade.

  “Sorry!” Narro yelled from above.

  Gnomes are dicks, he thought. So… not sorry.

  Reralt picked up the sword from the ground, wiggled it to shake off the splattered gnome, and faced the bear.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  “Just you, me, and Ms. Hacky now,” Reralt said—full Hero Mode. This will be punchline after punchline, he thought.

  He waved at Narro excitedly, giving him a thumbs-up.

  Narro rolled his eyes and wondered if Reralt could actually defeat the bear. It was a very big bear.

  Then he clapped. “Go, Reralt!” He figured he did want to see his family again… and going back alone would be very difficult. Encouragement was at least a +2 environmental bonus. Or ehh… inspiration. Or whatever you modern kids call it.

  The bear was looking at Narro, a strange intelligence in its eyes. Then it turned back to Reralt, as if trying to assess the threat.

  It stood on two legs—seemed to shrink ever so slightly—and then began to speak.

  “Humans, I must implore—”

  ***

  Reralt threw a tantrum. He hurled his sword to the ground and sat down with his back to the man-bear.

  “I am NEVER allowed to have fun.” He crossed his arms like a pouting statue. “An actual bear. Dozens of good, practiced punchlines. Rehearsed.”

  He gestured dismissively toward the bear. “And then this.”

  The man-bear looked at Narro. Narro raised his shoulders in a shrug, then gestured for the bear to wait.

  “Well then, Reralt,” he said, “give us your best one-liner. We’ll listen. I think I’ll make a song of the Gnomicide anyway.”

  The bear looked puzzled—but played along.

  “Of course, of course. Shame to throw away good punchlines. Even we know how rare those are.”

  Reralt got up, found his sword, and wiped it clean of the red statue liquid—which was, by now, everywhere.

  He struck a heroic pose and declared, “Today you fear, Grizzlied Bear.” Then tossed his hair into the metaphorical wind.

  The bear looked at Narro, who offered a slow, deliberate clap. The bear joined in.

  “And then I have—Bear with me,” Reralt said, holding his sword half across his face, looking very menacing.

  “Like that one,” the bear said, nodding. He sat down with a sigh, carefully plucking bits of glass from his fur.

  Reralt shifted into a new pose, ready to deliver another cheesy line—when Narro interrupted.

  “Mr. Bear Man... or Man Bear—what is it you need of us?”

  “Hey!” Reralt protested. “That was my best one. I took notes for these until deep in the night.”

  “Well, I want to hear it now,” the bear said, still picking out the last pieces of glass.

  “You smell like Camem-bear!” Reralt declared, sword mid-swing—then dropped it straight into the sticky red goo again.

  The bear clapped, clearly amused. Narro was... surprised.

  “Any of you know what Camem-bear is?” Reralt asked, cleaning his sword to a state he considered “clean-ish.”

  Narro snapped back to reality. The bear laughed.

  “So, Mr. Bearman,” Narro began, Once the dust had settled and they'd stepped out of the ruined gnome church, sitting in a patch of grass. “Why did you attack us?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, lads. I thought you were followers of the Darkest One,” the bear said. “Shall I make you some tea?” He pointed toward the forest. “My den’s not far—just a short walk.”

  Narro nodded. After riding all day and witnessing the Gnomicide, some peace and quiet sounded welcome—for both his mind and his behind.

  Reralt looked visibly disappointed at the word tea. He kicked an acorn and followed.

  “Or some ale,” the bear said, watching Reralt’s face turn from winter to summer.

  The acorn bounced and rolled—landing near the shattered church-turned-tomb, in a nearby gnome village, where fifty small gnome children stared at the three figures with horror and hate.

  Murderers.

  Swearing revenge.

  ***

  They saw the den from afar—a welcome-looking cave, brushed on both sides by a lush and unusually well-maintained garden. Bees floated lazily through the air, their buzzing broken only by the light chirping of birds or the occasional grunt of a contented boar.

  Inside, the cave revealed a single, furnished chamber. Rows of books lined the left-hand wall. Big jars of honey, candied strawberries, and other suspiciously well-preserved sweets stood piled high on the opposite side.

  A sagging couch waited near the center, flanked by a single, gently rocking chair. At the far wall, a bed lay nestled—built from twigs, hay, and whatever else the forest had generously surrendered.

  The man-bear made them tea. For Reralt, he poured a large mug of honey-sweetened ale.

  Reralt started immediately. “Pitching those statues makes a man thirsty,” he said, taking a hearty swig. “Come to think of it, breathing already makes me thirsty.”

  He paused, nodded like a well-fed philosopher, and took another swig.

  The burp that followed echoed politely. One of the bookshelves detached from the wall with a faint creak.

  The bear turned to stare at him. Then at Narro.

  Narro pointed calmly at the window near the door. “Still in,” he said. “You’re lucky.”

  Then he took a contented sip of tea.

  Reralt finished his mug in three great chugs. “More?” he asked, attempting a look of wide-eyed innocence that might’ve resembled a kitten—if the kitten were drunk and deeply unsettling.

  The man-bear frowned heavily. “Is he…” he began, making a slow, circular gesture at his own temple.

  “Nobility,” Narro replied. “Probably a bit inbred,” he added, sinking into the chair and resting his head back.

  “Humph,” Reralt replied, eyeing his own muscles with solemn pride. “Has to be an epic bread. Otherwise I won’t fit in.” he said while standing up and flexing.

  The man-bear nodded sagely, then handed over the entire barrel of ale.

  “Indeed, I see,” he said, laughing.

  For a brief, glorious moment, Narro was content—utterly convinced he had the situation completely under control.

  Of course, the whole thing would run wildly out of hand soon.

  Probably saturday.

  Probably around 17:00 UTC time.

  ***

  A Guide on How to Stop Fascism

  He yelled and cursed, he set the trap,

  Raised his fist with a firm-hand slap.

  Spoke aloud with shrieking cheer:

  “Those tall man-children—we draw near!”

  “No more shall they steal our face—

  For vermin traps or garden grace!

  No more waving pose or fishing pole,

  Never more gardener, nor wheelbarrow!”

  “We’ll steal their kids, we’ll make demands,

  We’ll shed their blood to strengthen plans!”

  But suddenly—a Hero came,

  Crashing in without much shame.

  He fed the lot to a massive bear,

  That struck them down with paw and glare.

  The last one died a bit off-key—

  Crushed to death… by Ms. Hacky.

  So listen well, you girls and boys,

  When gnome-fascists come and promise toys—

  Crush them down with shoes and boots.

  Eradicate both stern and root.

  Now raise your mugs to Reralt’s name—

  He crushed the tiny fascist flame.

  I still hear their sobbing. Constantly.