"The Royal Banquet (and the Milk Incident)" 🍷🐄
The following evening, the royal palace sparkled like a chandelier about to explode from sheer overenthusiasm—thousands of candles flickering in crystal sconces, sending golden light dancing across gilded walls and making every goblet gleam like captured starlight. Musicians in the gallery tuned their lutes with delicate plucks that floated down like warm honey, while nobles adjusted their ruffled sleeves of silk and lace, the fabric whispering with every dramatic gesture. The air was thick with the mouthwatering aromas of roasted pheasant dripping with herb butter, honey-glazed carrots, fresh-baked rolls still steaming, and the faint, sweet undertone of spiced wine mulled with cinnamon and cloves.
It was the grand Royal Banquet, held in honor of one very special, very opinionated guest—Bessy the Benevolent, the Sacred Cow of Verdelune.
Tomlin adjusted his borrowed tunic for the fifth time, tugging at the stiff embroidered collar that itched like a wool sweater made of nettles. He looked exactly like a hay bale that had wandered into a tailor's shop and tried—valiantly but unsuccessfully—to pass for nobility.
"Remind me," he whispered through clenched teeth as they approached the massive carved doors, "why are we doing this again?"
"Because," Bessy replied, strutting beside him in a custom velvet cloak dyed deep royal purple and edged with golden tassels that swished dramatically with every step, "when royalty invites you to dinner, you don't say no. You say moo. Loudly. With confidence."
"Please, please don't moo at the king," Tomlin begged, voice cracking like an adolescent goat.
"No promises," she answered, eyes twinkling with mischief.
The Great Hall was a dazzling, overwhelming sea of gold, silk, and self-importance. Long tables groaned under silver platters, crystal decanters caught the candlelight and threw rainbows across the vaulted ceiling, and the collective perfume of a hundred nobles—rosewater, sandalwood, and ambition—hung heavy in the warm air. Nobles whispered behind jeweled fans, eyes wide and sparkling, as the legendary talking cow entered with all the ceremony of a conquering hero.
"Look! The oracle of the fields!" hissed one duchess, clutching her pearls.
"I heard she predicted last week's rainstorm!" whispered a baron, spilling wine on his cuff in excitement.
"My cousin swears her milk healed his warts overnight!" declared a viscount, nodding sagely.
Tomlin tried desperately to shrink into invisibility, willing the marble floor to swallow him whole, but Bessy basked in the attention like a sunbathing goddess, head high, tail swishing proudly.
King Eldred rose from his throne at the head table, robes rustling like autumn leaves, and beamed with the delighted expression of a man who'd just discovered his kingdom came with free entertainment.
"Welcome, dear guests! Tonight, we feast in honor of our divine advisor, Bessy the Benevolent!"
The crowd erupted in polite but enthusiastic applause that echoed off the rafters like thunderous rain on a tin roof.
Tomlin prayed silently for spontaneous combustion. Or a convenient sinkhole.
Dinner began with a fanfare of trumpets that made the chandeliers tremble.
Platters appeared as if by magic: glistening fruits piled like jewels, roasted meats carved into perfect slices and dripping savory juices, delicate pastries flaky enough to shatter at a breath. A silver bowl of fresh, creamy milk—steaming gently and smelling sweetly of clover—was placed proudly in front of Bessy with a reverent bow from a trembling servant.
She sniffed it delicately, frowned so deeply her brow furrowed like plowed earth, and turned to Tomlin.
"This milk is cow milk."
He froze mid-reach for a bread roll. "Well, yes. What else would it—oh no. Oh saints preserve us—"
Bessy's eye twitched with the intensity of a thundercloud.
"They served me my own kind?!"
"Please keep your voice down," Tomlin whispered desperately, sweat beading on his forehead like morning dew.
Too late.
"WHAT BARBARIAN DARES SERVE COW TO A COW?!" Bessy bellowed, voice ringing clear over the clatter of silverware.
The hall went dead silent—so sudden you could hear a custard wobble.
Nobles looked horrified, mouths frozen mid-chew. Servants dropped trays with metallic crashes that echoed like cymbals in a funeral march. The King turned the pale shade of fresh parchment.
Tomlin leapt up, waving his hands like a man trying to flag down a runaway cart. "It's—it's symbolic milk! Not real milk! Decorative! Totally non-dairy! Made from… uh… clouds and good intentions!"
"Oh, really?" Bessy narrowed her eyes to slits sharp enough to curdle the offending beverage.
"Yes!" In a panic, Tomlin grabbed the bowl, took a heroic gulp—and immediately regretted every life choice that led to this moment. The warm, unmistakably dairy taste coated his tongue.
"It's, uh… slightly warm marble water!" he croaked, forcing a smile that stretched his face like old leather.
The King blinked slowly. "Marble… water?"
Tomlin's grin widened painfully, sweat now trickling down his back. "A farmer's specialty. Very… rustic. Builds character."
An awkward silence stretched for what felt like three harvests. Then the King coughed politely into his napkin.
"Ah! What a curious custom indeed. Let us toast to… marble water!"
The nobles—eager to save face and avoid divine bovine wrath—lifted their goblets with frantic enthusiasm.
"To marble water!" they chorused, some so vigorously that wine sloshed onto silk sleeves.
Tomlin collapsed back into his seat, sweating bullets that could fill a moat.
Bessy leaned in, voice low and amused. "You're terrible at lying."
"Saved your hide, didn't I?" he hissed.
"Hmph. I'll allow it. This once."
Miraculously, the banquet continued—and somehow improved once Bessy began "blessing" each dish with theatrical flair.
"This pheasant is too salty—may the cook find balance in life, and perhaps less brine."
"This pastry is divine; I accept it as tribute. Well done, mortal."
"Whoever made this soup needs immediate divine guidance. And more pepper."
The nobles scribbled frantic notes on napkins like eager disciples, nodding solemnly as if receiving commandments carved in stone.
Tomlin just ate in quiet, pudding-fearing despair.
When dessert arrived—a towering, quivering pudding sculpted into an eerily accurate likeness of Bessy herself, complete with fondant horns and sugared eyes—Tomlin nearly choked on his wine.
Bessy stared at it in slowly dawning outrage.
"Are they mocking me?"
The King smiled nervously, crown slipping again. "It's a… tribute pudding. A great honor!"
"I'll allow it," Bessy decided magnanimously, and dove in with alarming enthusiasm, cream splattering like celebratory confetti. "Mmm. Delicious. Almost forgives the milk incident. Almost."
Tomlin sighed in profound relief—
Until the pudding, overexcited by Bessy's vigorous spooning, wobbled once too often and collapsed in a glorious avalanche of custard and sponge, splattering thick vanilla cream all over the King's royal robe, the tablecloth, and half the neighboring duchess.
Everyone froze. A single candied violet slid slowly down the King's beard.
Tomlin stood so fast his chair toppled. "I can explain—"
Bessy licked a dollop of cream from her nose, eyes wide and innocent.
"He did it."
Tomlin's jaw dropped to the pudding-strewn table. "WHAT?!"
"Sorry, Druid," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "I'm divine, remember? Can't have people thinking the Sacred Cow caused a pudding disaster. Bad for the brand."
The King blinked once, twice—then burst into deep, rolling laughter that jiggled his cream-spattered belly and set his crown askew.
"Ah ha ha! Even the Holy Cow has humor! Delightful! Absolutely delightful!"
The hall, sensing permission, joined in—nervous titters turning into full-bellied guffaws, applause thundering as nobles wiped tears (and cream) from their faces.
Tomlin sat back down slowly, covered in pudding and humiliation, looking like a defeated dessert.
Bessy grinned smugly, cream on her whiskers like a victorious mustache.
"See? You're a hit. The pudding assassin of Verdelune."
Later that night, as they walked the torchlit corridors back to their chambers—Tomlin leaving faint creamy footprints, Bessy humming contentedly—Tomlin groaned.
"One day, Bessy. One day I'll have a normal, quiet life again."
"Impossible," she replied cheerfully, velvet cloak still miraculously spotless. "You're famous now. Internationally pudding-splattered."
"I never asked to be famous."
"You didn't have to. Fame mooed its way to you. With extra custard."
Tomlin sighed, long and dramatic, echoing down the marble hall.
"You're insufferable."
"And you love me for it," she said softly, nudging him gently with her warm, cream-scented shoulder.
He didn't answer—but as they reached their doors under the watchful eyes of ancestral portraits (who looked mildly scandalized), Tomlin's lips curved into a helpless, fond smile.
Just a little one. But it was there
"The Knight and the Cow" ⚔️🐮
The next morning, a sharp knock rattled Tomlin's ornate chamber door—three precise raps that sounded like someone practicing etiquette with a hammer.
Tomlin stumbled out of his silk-sheeted bed, still half-tangled in a nightshirt embroidered with tiny golden cows (a "gift" from the royal tailors that he suspected was deliberate teasing). He cracked the door to find a young knight standing ramrod straight in mirror-bright silver armor that caught the hallway torchlight and flung it back in dazzling bursts. The poor lad looked tall, serious, and deeply uncomfortable—like a puppy forced into formalwear.
"Sir Tomlin," the knight announced stiffly, cheeks pink beneath his polished helm. "His Majesty requests that you and Lady Bessy accompany me to the training grounds at once."
Tomlin blinked sleep from his eyes, beard sticking out at odd angles. "Why? Are we being arrested? Exiled? Forced to eat palace food forever?"
"Probably promoted," Bessy called cheerfully from her velvet cushion, mouth full of a pilfered breakfast bouquet of roses and lilies that perfumed the room with sweet, dewy fragrance. She crunched a stem like it was celery. "Morning, Shiny. Nice armor. Does it come in cow sizes?"
The knight sighed—a long, weary exhale that fogged his visor slightly. "No arrests. The King believes the Holy Cow might… bless our soldiers. Inspire them. Raise morale."
Tomlin groaned so deeply it rumbled in his chest. "Of course he does."
At the training grounds, the morning sun slanted across the vast field, turning rows of soldiers' armor into a glittering sea of silver that dazzled the eyes. The air carried the sharp tang of oiled leather, fresh sweat, and the earthy scent of trampled grass. Dozens of men stood in perfect formation, spears upright like a metal forest, while the General paced before them barking orders in a voice like gravel tumbling downhill—all while stealing furtive glances at Bessy as though expecting her to sprout wings.
"Attention, men!" the General bellowed, trying desperately to maintain dignity. "The divine beast will now inspire your spirits and fortify your courage!"
"Do I have to give a speech?" Bessy whispered to Tomlin as they approached the wooden platform, her hooves sinking slightly into the soft turf.
Tomlin shrugged helplessly, tunic already sticking to him in the warming sun. "Apparently. Just… keep it short?"
She stepped forward with tail swishing proudly, ribbons from previous festivities fluttering like battle standards in the gentle breeze.
"Listen up, shiny humans!" Bessy declared, voice carrying clear and bright across the field. "True strength comes not from muscles alone, but from belief—belief that you can lift heavier things than the person next to you, run faster when someone's chasing you with a pointy stick, and definitely eat more rations at supper!"
The soldiers blinked in unison, like a flock of very confused owls.
"And if you fall in battle," she added solemnly, pausing for dramatic effect as a morning lark trilled overhead, "make sure you do it dramatically. Clutch the wound, stagger a bit, deliver a heartfelt line about honor or turnips. It really boosts morale for everyone watching."
A ripple of thoughtful murmurs spread through the ranks. A few soldiers nodded slowly, as if receiving sacred tactical wisdom. One young recruit in the front row even snapped a crisp salute, eyes shining with inspiration.
The General leaned toward Tomlin, mustache twitching. "She's… disturbingly good at this."
Tomlin sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Please don't encourage her. She's already impossible."
After the session—during which Bessy also suggested shinier helmets for intimidation factor and mandatory pie breaks—the young knight approached again, this time shyly, helm tucked under one arm. His boots scuffed the grass nervously, and a faint scent of nervous sweat mingled with polished metal.
"If it pleases the Holy Cow…" he began, voice softer now, "might I request a personal blessing before my next patrol?"
"Of course, brave tin man," Bessy said graciously, dipping her head like a queen granting knighthood. "May your sword stay sharp, your armor remain gloriously un-dented, your boots never blister, and your horse less judgmental about your singing."
The knight's serious face cracked into an honest, rare smile that lit him up brighter than his armor. "Thank you, Lady Bessy. I shall serve with honor—and better posture."
As he strode away whistling, Tomlin noticed something strange: soldiers polishing their gear with new fervor, a few practicing dramatic falls in the corner, and whispers of "The Sacred Moo approves" drifting on the breeze.
People around the castle were starting to believe.
Maybe too much.
That night, Tomlin sat by the wide window of his chamber, cool night air carrying the distant clang of the changing guard and the flickering orange glow of torchlights dancing across the courtyard below like mischievous fire sprites.
"They actually think you're divine," he murmured, resting his chin on folded arms. "Full-on holy. Miracle cow."
Bessy lay on her enormous cushion, chewing the last rose from breakfast with thoughtful crunches. Moonlight silvered her coat and made the remaining ribbons shimmer softly.
"Maybe I am," she said quietly, almost gently. "Who's to say the gods don't have a sense of humor? Maybe they got bored with thunderbolts and golden fleeces."
Tomlin chuckled, the sound warm and reluctant, bubbling up despite himself. "If they do, they're definitely laughing at me. The farmer turned reluctant prophet."
"No," Bessy replied, turning her head to give him a small, fond cow smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "They're laughing with you. There's a difference."
And for once—for the first time since a certain cow had opened her mouth and ruined his peaceful life—Tomlin couldn't find a single argument.
He just smiled back, shook his head, and let the quiet night settle around them like a soft, ridiculous blanket.