Grimble was a sandwich. No this sandwich did not seek fame or fortune.
He was a BLT. He sure as hell loved his western handkerchief that was solid rose red. It waved in the wind as he did a lazy stroll down Mustard Ave.
He kicked up a holler and the dust from when he walked down the avenue.
Here it was here, here, and there that he decided that his town was boring. The mundane came through the clouds. The spice people didn't give a shit about the sandwiches. The sandwich people were a frail lot. They just kind of toiled against the background of the skies. They did however dig up pickles. Much like potatoes these monstrous green and sort of bulbousy pickles came out of the ground like a tremor, Yes, the Tremor like the gigantic wormily worms that eat people. Except how did the pickles rumble? Well they did not rumble they kind of were just plucked out of the ground magnetically by a magne-tosser. Here, it was evident that this machine the magne-tosser could lift these pickles high above. Of course, the sandwich people never liked these pickles. They were just pickles. But it was one day...as any other day when Grimble decided to venture out into the brocolli fields.
They say it was never wise to go in these fields. Majestic purplish rodents were in the brocolli fields. Camoflauge spiders would skurry and skitter all to well in these fields. With no more than a pack of cheese doodles and vampirish stick, he sat off, to danger he did not know.
He crossed the Gallian river and headed north to the brocolli fields.
It was here he notcied something strange. His life at home was okay. His father always yelled at him. His sister was quite acerbic to him. She always argued that the salt people would leave the sandwich people alone. Yet, Grimble was smarter than that and he knew they were a volitaile group. He jumped across a stone and then hopped across another. The grubarry fish swam with ease against the current. Never whipping and lashing. They would always swim against the current. Then one fishy decided to try his might with the current. He got as so far to Grimble. Grimble clapped both hands and levitated off the ground. Purple energy mixed with a minor dragon spirit swirled in front of him. No, ordinary sandwich? He was a goddamn monk sandwich. Yet he had no markings.
No ancient wisdom. Just a sandwich looking for adventure. He snapped and the fish jumped out of the water into his hand. It was about midday and Grimble decided to put the fish in a water satchel. Convientely, it kept the fish cool and was like a jimmy-rigged fishbowl. Yet, this fish could talk as all magical creatures.
"You're the one called, Grimble?" the fish postulated. Was it more of a postulation than just an utter. "You're the one the great Zambooki's have talked about, I am not a prophetic fish, but I have swam in these rivers for many a time." he said with grace. "The Thundersharks live in these waters as well. Something stirs in the distance, a mage named Clydsdale Ravington lives in the high cliffs of Eddendale." he burped.
Grimble had no idea what was going on. He was expressionless. What the fuck was the fish talking about? Clydsdale Ravington? He had no idea what a heroe's journey was, let alone why he'd even want to go to some cliff dwelling.
Grimble ambled on through the brocolli forest and fenagled his way through a bramble thicket. He looked through the grossly populated thicket and saw the bright light shine through the trees. It hit him at an alarming rate as only light could. Off in the distance was a Lara-Croftian-esque temple. It had a sun totem on the top.
This Grimble new to be dangerous....
Again, making stories up on the fly. ;)