Editing Count Joe Kürbisgärtner (section)

==The Surly Highborn==
The High Elf prince sniffed in disdain at the little creaky mailbox before him, giving the stout wooden post a kick. He had heard of the Count who lived and tilled these lands, as many said he would give provisions to those worthy enough. He looked back at his men, sucking at near-empty waterskins and picking at rocks with their spears in boredom. In his haste to find a magical item across the lands in Bretonnia, he had not bothered with trivial things such as "packing adequate supplies", but his men would never know that nor would he take the blame for their laziness and lack of will. They sat there until dusk, and then the count himself strode forth from the hushing stalks of wheat. His blood-red armor shone, almost glowing, in the night, and his pitchfork was a gleaming barb of silver resting on his shoulder. With little ceremony the prince drew his sword and pointed it at the Count, putting on an air and tone of nobility.

"Listen here, you abomination," he began. "My men and I need provisions and we know you have them, as well as having more than enough coin to pay our way. I will not partake in your barbaric system of dueling and demand that you let us in your lodgings at ''once!''"

Joe just laughed, planting the butt of his pitchfork into the dirt. 

"What's the matter, little elf? Afraid that 'ole Joe will show you up in front of your men, and your titles of nobility will be called into question?" Joe laughed heartily. "No one enters my lands without proving themselves worthy, and I have no use for your damned gold coins."

"Oh ''please''," said the prince, waving his sword at the Count nonchalantly. "I would have no trouble from some uppity farmer who parades around as a warrior."

Joe's lips curled into a smile, his fangs gleaming pearl in the dying sun. "Care to make a wager, my little elf?"

"Hah!" the prince barked. "I would sooner shovel your shit field for eternity than lose to one like you!"

"Accepted," said Joe quietly, and began to advance on the prince. The prince lunged forward with a snarl, whipping his sword about him with the speed and precision of his race. What he didn't expect, however, was z vicious right hook from the Count, his iron knuckleduster glove cracking the Prince across his cheek. The prince fell to the ground with a cry, dropping his sword and clutching his face like a wounded child. The count slowly drew a dagger from his belt, dried blood crusted black on the blade. The prince's men were quickly corralled by policing scarecrows, forcing them to bunch together and watch as the Count advanced on the sobbing prince. With little ceremony, Joe plunged the knife deep into the chest of the prince, the sudden howls and screams of the elf filling the darkening sky. His men looked on in horror as the flesh melted from his face; he still screamed as blood and tissue ran from his face like water. The stench of rotting meat invaded their noses as the Prince's exposed eyeballs came free of the sockets and dangled on his face, until they too rotted and fell to the ground. The cries cut off abruptly, and the skeleton lay there silently. The scarecrows silently slid back to their posts leaving the stunned and horrified High Elves standing alone. Not quietly, however, as the Count's attention was caught by one of them voiding their stomach.

"The town is 10 miles down the road, make it there and you can use your coins to buy food. Then go home," the Count told them quietly, smiling his gentle smile at them. The men quickly ran down the road, not even stopping to grab their packs, only grabbing their bows and spears. The Count looked down at the skeleton, then willed him to stand. The Skeleton responded obediently, the trapped Elven soul glowing in its empty sockets. "Welcome to the Fields, prince. Now start shoveling shit."