Chuck vs the Adventures in Buymoria

Chapter 1 and a half: Of beginnings and stuff

Outside, the autumn rain put on a proper performance, drumming a relentless, soggy rhythm against the windowpanes like a troupe of impatient goblins. Inside, however, the world was a cozy sanctuary of snapping pine logs, warm tea, and gentle firelight that stretched three wildly dramatic shadows across the rug.

Three candles flickered on the scarred oak table, their wax pooling lazily as Morgan sat back in his favorite armchair. He leaned forward, stoking the fire in his eyes with practiced theatrical flair.

Across from him, two children were buried under a mountain of wool blankets like a pair of skeptical badgers, staring at him with the fierce, unyielding impatience only children could master.

Luke sighed, tossing a rogue tassel over his shoulder. “Dad. Start it already.”

Morgan raised one solemn, storytelling finger. “Patience, young apprentice. Every great story needs a great beginning.”

Leila, his four-year-old daughter, narrowed her eyes. “You said that last time.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“And was it a good beginning?”

“No.”

Morgan placed a dramatic hand over his heart, gasping softly. “That hurts. Right in the lore.”

Luke groaned into his elbow. “Dad!”

“Fine, fine.” Morgan cleared his throat, adjusting his posture to look like an ancient chronicler addressing a grand royal court. “Long ago, in a land far... far away...” He paused, his brow furrowing as he stroked an imaginary longer beard. “Nope. Too dusty, too distant and too much family drama. This isn't it.”

Luke covered his face with both hands.

Morgan snapped his fingers with a sharp crack. “Okay. I’ve got it.” He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Another world. Another time. An age of wonders, wild magic, and terrible choices!”

Leila blinked, sniffing suspiciously. “Is this a kissing story?”

Morgan froze mid-pose. His expression instantly shifted into terrifying, utmost seriousness. “Yes.”

“Ahhh! Not another one!”

Luke roared with laughter as Leila threw her hands in the air. Morgan pointed an authoritative finger at her. “Excuse me, young lady. Romance is a crucial ingredient in any proper heroic tale. It builds character.”

“It’s always kissing.”

“Well, there will also be evil bi—”

“Morgan!” shouted Alexis. His wife’s voice cut through the air like an enchanted blade from the kitchen, accompanied by the sharp clatter of a wooden spoon against a pot. Morgan instantly locked up like a statue in a museum.

“Right,” he squeaked, clearing his throat hastily. “Sorry, honey!”

Leila giggled behind her blanket as Morgan leaned forward again, whispering conspiratorially. “So. There will be evil witches.”

“Better,” Leila admitted.

“Magic.”

Luke leaned closer, the blankets slipping. “Dragons?”

“Possibly.”

“Monsters?”

“Almost certainly—and most of them with terrible hygiene.”

“Cool!”

“And sword fights,” Morgan continued, warming up now. “Dark sorcery. Dangerous quests. Mysterious strangers with suspiciously cool cloaks. Ancient, decaying kingdoms.”

Leila raised one finger. “More kissing?”

Morgan sighed, defeated. “Yes, Leila. There will be some more kissing.”

She buried her face deep in her blanket. “Aaah.”

“But there will also be glory,” Morgan promised softly.

That finally hushed the pair. Morgan snatched up a candle from the table, holding it directly beneath his chin so the light cast ridiculous, mysterious shadows up his nose and across his cheeks. “Buckle up.”

Luke frowned at his own pajama bottoms. “We don’t have buckles.”

“It’s an expression.”

“Oh.”

Morgan nodded with absolute gravitas. “Then buckle up anyway.” He turned toward the dancing hearthfire, his voice dropping into the deep, rolling cadence of the true tales.

For a breath, the ambient warmth of the room seemed to shift. The squeaky armchair vanished. The rain outside stopped sounding like rain and started sounding like the thunderous roar of a mountain storm breaking over ancient stone parapets. The humble candles flared into sputtering wall-torches, lighting up a grand, forgotten world.

A kingdom of honorable knights and bickering sorcerers. A kingdom where the land’s supreme arch-mage was currently passed out drunk, face-down in a tavern bowl of cabbage soup.

Morgan grinned. “We are entering the kingdom of Buymoria.”

Leila peeked out, eyes wide. “And who is the hero?”

Morgan’s smile stretched dangerously wide. “Oh, that’s the best part.” He leaned in until their foreheads almost touched. “His name was Chuckles.”

Luke blinked. “Chuckles?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a terrible wizard name.”

Morgan nodded gravely. “The worst. But he was only the wizard’s apprentice.” A beat stretched. “And he was about to have the absolute worst day of his life. Until the love of his life Sarah entered the Kingdom, but let’s not skip so far ahead.”

A gentle clatter came from the kitchen as a tea mug hit the counter. Morgan flashed a quick look over his shoulder, then met his children’s rapt gaze once more.

“And the best.” He blew softly on the flame, making it leap. “Once upon a time...”

XXXXXXXXXX

Rain didn’t just fall on Buymoria; it executed a full-scale siege. It battered slate roofs, transformed cobblestones into rushing rivers, and blew shutters off their hinges—the precise kind of weather designed to make any sensible creature huddle beside a hearth with a mug of spiced cider.

Chuckles, unfortunately, was a wizard’s apprentice, which meant sense was strictly off the syllabus.

Inside the damp, sawdust-strewn taproom of the Rusty Griffin Inn, Chuckles stood beside a grease-stained oak table and stared in profound despair. His master, Roanald the Great—Archmage of the Third Order and legend of the realm—was currently lying half-submerged in a bowl of cabbage soup.

"Master?" Chuckles rasped over the tavern's ambient din.

Roanald didn't twitch. A lone, greasy cabbage leaf rested atop his soggy pointed hat. A thick green bubble rose from the broth, expanded, and popped with a wet thwip.

"Please don't be dead," Chuckles whispered, closing his eyes.

A snoring snort erupted from the bowl, spraying broth onto the tabletop.

"Good," Chuckles sighed. He grabbed the drenched velvet shoulders of his master’s robes and heaved. With a terrifying slurp, Roanald’s face popped free. He gasped, blinked soup from his eyes, and immediately glaring. "You are late."

Chuckles stared. "I am late? You were sleeping in soup!"

Roanald picked a bit of carrot from his graying beard, inspecting it with scholarly gravity. "That explains the cabbage. Besides, I was meditating. Advanced technique."

Chuckles opened his mouth, but wisely closed it. Arguing logic with a man whose hair smelled like boiled brassica was a fool's errand.

Roanald straightened, pointing a dripping finger. "A wizard is never late, apprentice. He arrives..."

"...exactly when he means to," Chuckles finished flatly.

"Right! But you are not a Jedi yet," Roanald countered sternly, reaching into his soaked vestments to pull out a shimmering parchment tied with silver thread. "Your task: deliver this mission essential Older Scroll to Bryce Bigdik immediately. He's beyond the eastern gate, preparing to fight a dragon."

"A dragon?" Chuckles gulped, taking the heavy parchment.

Roanald leaned in, breathing warm cabbage fumes over him. "Whatever you do... do not look inside."

Three minutes later, Chuckles was huddled beneath a stone alcove outside, shivering as gale-force winds whipped his cloak. "Right. Bryce Bigdik. Dragon. Magic scroll. Easy."

The scroll instantly ignited with blinding, radiant light.

"That's... probably bad," Chuckles squeaked.

The silver string snapped. The parchment unfurled like a living snake, blasting glowing golden runes into the stormy night. A terrifying, brain-melting torrent of ancient arcane knowledge—spells, star maps, royal lineage charts, dragon-slaying maneuvers—jammed itself straight into Chuckles’ eyes and directly into his mind.

"Ow!" he yelled, grabbing his skull. Another flash. "Ow! My brain!"

The magic burned out, leaving the scroll a smoking pile of ash. Chuckles wobbled, his eyes spinning in opposite directions, before his knees gave out and he face-planted onto the slick, freezing cobblestones.

In the warm living room, Morgan paused his narration, letting the silence stretch dramatically.

"And what happened next?" Leila demanded, poking her nose out from her blanket fortress.

Morgan shrugged blithely. "Well, without the magical scroll, Bryce Bigdik got eaten instantly by the dragon."

Leila nodded in firm approval. "Deserves him."

"Yeah," Luke agreed, crossing his arms. "Totally."

Morgan blinked at them. "I haven't told you a single thing about him yet!"

"Well, I don't like his name," Leila said flatly.

"Fair enough," Morgan chuckled. "We'll skip his tragic ending. So, there lay Chuckles, out cold on the rain-slick streets with ten thousand forbidden spells burning inside his brain... and absolutely no idea what he'd just become." He lowered his voice to a dark whisper. "Fortunately, Jeff and Lester, the court jester clowns, happened to stroll by."

Leila sat up straight. "Clowns?"

"Yes."

"Are they funny?"

Morgan glanced nervously toward the kitchen, where the clatter of dishes abruptly paused. "That depends on who you ask."

"Morgan!" yelled his wife from the other room.

Morgan winced with a grin. "Definitely depends on who you ask."

XXXXXXXXXX

“There were Jeff and Lester,” Morgan continued, settling deeper into his chair with a dry creak of old leather, “the two clowns known throughout the royal court as the Jeffster the Trickster Act.”

Luke grinned. “Were they actually good clowns?”

Morgan considered the question with scholarly gravity. “No.” He paused, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough to be dramatic. “They were, however, very good at being Jeff and Lester.”

“That doesn’t answer it,” Luke said.

“It answers it perfectly.” Morgan leaned toward the flickering candlelight. “Anyway, the two clowns found Chuckles lying unconscious in the rain. Being loyal servants of the crown, they immediately decided to help him.”

Leila smiled, her little face emerging from her blanket fortress. “Aww.”

“Yes,” Morgan said solemnly. “A deeply touching act of mercy.” He lowered his voice. “Unfortunately, their definition of help was somewhat... unusual.”

Jeff and Lester dragged Chuckles through the muddy courtyard, his boots plowing long furrows in the silt, and deposited him beside the royal stables. Nestled against the outer timber wall was an enormous, golden haystack.

It was dry. It was warm. And, most importantly, nobody was looking.

“Perfect,” Jeff whispered, wiping rain from his forehead.

Lester nodded. “Absolutely.”

Together, they hoisted the limp apprentice into the straw. Jeff looked down at the shivering, soaked figure. “He’ll freeze in those wet clothes.”

Lester gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Very dangerous.”

“So we should remove the wet trousers.”

“Obviously.”

A moment later, Chuckles was comfortably buried beneath a foot of dry hay, wearing nothing but his undergarments.

Jeff brushed his hands together with a crisp clap. “There.”

Lester nodded with immense satisfaction. “We saved his life.”

They wandered off toward the inviting warmth of the kitchen. Neither noticed the two iron-clad royal guards watching them from beneath a stone archway across the courtyard.

One guard slowly turned his visor toward the other. “Should we stop them?”

The second guard considered it, watching the colorful figures saunter away. “No.”

“Why?”

“They’re clowns.”

The first guard nodded slowly. “Good point.”

The next morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a crisp, washed-blue sky flooded with golden sunlight.

A tall figure entered through the eastern gate. She wore reinforced leather armor, a dark green traveling cloak, and carried a long spear that gleamed in the dawn light. Her blonde hair was pulled back neatly, and every movement carried the crisp, controlled confidence of a trained warrior.

Sarah. An Amazon warrior, in Buymoria on official business.

She stopped beside the royal stables, her sharp instincts flaring as something rustled in the straw. Sarah immediately reached for her spear.

The giant haystack shifted again.

She narrowed her eyes, stepping closer with silent, deliberate balance.

Suddenly, Chuckles’ head emerged from the straw like a confused groundhog. His hair was full of stray wheat, and he blinked blindly against the morning sun.

Sarah stared.

Chuckles stared back.

Neither spoke.

Finally, Chuckles managed a weak, polite wave. “Hi.”

Sarah’s eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. “Why are you half naked in the royal stables?”

Chuckles looked down at his bare chest and undergarments. His eyes widened. “Oh.” A pause. “This is going to be difficult to explain.”

Sarah folded her arms, resting her spear against her shoulder. “I imagine so.”

Chuckles tried to sit up, causing three pieces of hay to tumble from his hair. “I can explain.”

“Good.”

He thought about it for two silent seconds. “I actually can’t.”

Sarah’s mouth twitched. Just barely.

Chuckles noticed immediately. “You almost smiled.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

Sarah turned away, restoring her stoic composure. “Get dressed.”

Chuckles patted the hay around him, his face falling. “My clothes appear to have vanished.”

“Take my cloack” said Sarah as she handed the cloack over.

From somewhere behind the stables came the unmistakable sound of muffled, stifled laughter.

Sarah slowly turned her head toward the noise.

Chuckles sighed heavily. “Oh, no.”

Morgan paused, letting the moment hang.

Leila immediately raised her hand high. “Will they kiss?”

Morgan smiled warmly. “Sure.”

Leila’s eyes lit up.

“But not now.”

“Aww.”

“You see,” Morgan continued, “the Amazons of Buymoria believed that strength came from being cold, disciplined, and completely in control of their emotions.”

Luke frowned. “That sounds boring.”

“It was extremely boring.”

“So they didn’t fall in love?”

“Oh, they avoided love like a plague.”

Leila giggled, snuggling down into her blanket.

Morgan leaned closer, pointing a dramatic finger toward the candle flame. “The problem was...” He let the silence linger. “...nobody had told Sarah about Chuckles.”

Leila gasped. Luke grinned.

Morgan smiled in the warm firelight. “And that, children, was the beginning of the trouble.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Chuckles eventually managed to retrieve his stolen trousers from a patch of weeds behind the stables, though he spent the next ten minutes agonizing over the baffling inner workings of clown logic. How, exactly, stripping an unconscious man down to his undergarments constituted first aid remained one of Buymoria’s greatest unsolved mysteries.

He had just finished pulling on his soggy leather boots when heavy footsteps crunched against the gravel. A shorter man clad in pristine, polished leather armor stopped directly in front of him, exuding the crisp, heroic posture of someone who practiced his striking poses in a mirror.

Behind him glided Sarah. Her expression had hardened from mild amusement back into absolute sub-zero Arctic ice.

“Chuckles,” she said, her voice dripping with dangerous calm.

Chuckles offered a weak, sheepish wave. “Sarah.”

“The scroll.”

Chuckles winced, scratching the back of his neck. “Ah. Right. Well... that’s the complicated part.”

Bryce stepped forward, adjusting his weapon belt. “I was told you had it.”

“I did.”

“Then give it to me.”

Chuckles shifted uncomfortably on his boots. “I can’t.”

Sarah’s hand glided toward the pommel of her spear. “You can’t?”

“I accidentally looked inside.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You what?”

“It wasn’t intentional!” Chuckles squeaked, holding his hands up defensively. “It sort of... unfurled itself!”

Bryce frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “And?”

“And now all the spells are floating around in my head.” A heavy silence fell over the courtyard. Chuckles tried a hopeful smile. “On the bright side, I learned several very interesting things about fireballs!”

Sarah did not smile. “That was the Older Scroll.”

Chuckles’ smile evaporated instantly.

Sarah stepped closer, her shadow falling over him. “The Amazons have been searching for it for years. We need its magic against the Assassins of Urn.”

Chuckles swallowed hard, his throat suddenly bone-dry. “Oh.”

“You destroyed our chance to obtain it.”

“I didn’t destroy it!”

“You absorbed it.”

“That’s... technically different.”

“Not to me.”

Chuckles cast a desperate glance at Bryce. Bryce looked over at Sarah, stroked his chin, and let out a long, heavy sigh.

“Well,” Bryce muttered, looking toward the sprawling stone towers of the distant castle. “If the scroll is gone, then we’re going to have to find another way.”

Sarah folded her arms tight against her armor. “And what exactly do you suggest?”

Bryce looked back at Chuckles, a slow grin spreading across his face. “We get more muscle.”

Chuckles blinked. “Muscle?”

“Someone who can keep us alive while you figure out what all that ancient magic in your head actually does.”

Sarah’s skepticism remained razor-sharp, but Bryce just chuckled. “Follow me. I know someone.”

They found Sir Casey in the gloom of a nearby tavern, surrounded by the heavy smell of stale ale and roasting meats. He sat completely alone in a shadowy corner booth, methodically scraping a whetstone against his broadsword while three empty wooden mugs stood sentinel in front of him.

Chuckles leaned over to whisper. “That is Sir Casey?”

“Aeldefader was the hedge knight?”

Morgan’s smile turned delightfully mysterious. “Yes, but that... is a story for another night.”

Bryce nodded proudly. “The best hedge knight in the kingdom.”

Sarah studied the warrior with a critical eye.

Casey looked up from his blade. His tired, battle-weary eyes moved slowly from Bryce... to Sarah... to Chuckles... and then back to Bryce.

“No.”

Bryce frowned. “I haven’t asked yet.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I want!”

“You brought an apprentice wizard.” Casey pointed a calloused, scarred finger at Chuckles. “And an Amazon.” He flicked his finger toward Sarah. “Whatever this is, it’s trouble.”

Chuckles raised a polite finger. “Technically, I’m not a wizard yet.”

Casey stared at him with deadpan exhaustion. “That somehow makes it worse.”

Sarah’s mouth twitched—she almost smiled again.

Bryce reached into his cloak and slapped a heavy, clinking leather pouch of coins onto the scarred oak table. Casey glanced down at it, then up at Bryce.

“How much?”

“Enough.”

Casey picked up the pouch, weighing the coin with a practiced flick of his wrist. “Who are we fighting?”

“A dragon and assassins.”

Casey sighed heavily. “Of course.”

Chuckles leaned sideways toward Sarah. “Is he always this cheerful?”

“Yes,” she replied smoothly.

Casey shot him a glare. “No, I’m not.”

Chuckles beamed. “I like him.”

Within minutes, the deal was struck. Sir Casey stood up, strapped his massive sword to his belt, and slung his iron-rimmed shield over his shoulder. He cast a flat glance over the ragtag trio. “When do we leave?”

Bryce grinned. “Now.”

Casey groaned, rolling his shoulders. “Of course. Morgan get up, we are leaving!”

Morgan suddenly stopped talking.

In the cozy living room, Luke blinked against the firelight. “Dad, were you there?”

Morgan stared silently into the dancing candle flame. For a long, fleeting moment, his warm smile grew strangely distant, drifting away to some far-off place.

“Yeah, because,” Morgan said softly, his voice thick with memory, “I was the squire for Sir Casey.”

Leila sat bolt upright under her blanket. “You were?!”

Morgan nodded solemnly. “The greatest squire in all of Buymoria.”

Luke raised an eyebrow, dubious. “You were a squire? Were you actually good?”

Morgan hesitated, touching his chin thoughtfully. “I was... exceptionally… enthusiastic.”

Luke burst out laughing.

Morgan smiled, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. “And that was the true beginning of our adventure.” He leaned deep into his armchair, remembering things that lived only behind his eyes—the tavern smoke, the cold rain, the ridiculous wizard, the terrifying Amazon, the grumpy knight, and a younger version of himself, standing beside them with absolutely no idea what he’d just gotten himself into.

Morgan looked down at his wide-eyed children. “And that children is… how I met your mother.”

Leila gasped aloud, her hands flying to her mouth. “Mom was Sarah?!”

“No munchkin, she was a fair maiden that we rescued along the way. And it turned out later she was Sir Casey’s daughter.”

From the kitchen came the sudden, sharp sound of a wooden spoon slapping a cutting board. “Morgan keep it short! The children need to sleep soon!”

He winced, chuckling under his breath. “Okay, okay! One more chapter!”

Luke immediately buried himself back into his blanket, grinning ear to ear. “I knew it!”

Morgan sighed, rubbing his forehead with a lighthearted laugh. “I really should stop ending stories like that.”