So. On to Elaine. Our—

What?

No. No, I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything. We’re following our fair heroine and—

…

Seriously? You want to go there?

…

But why can’t we just—

…

*sigh*

Fine. Fine. We’ll check on the overgrown drunken firefly. Happy?

Good.

So. Back at the Withershins Inn and Tavern the late afternoon drinkers and hungry travelers have started filtering in. But all, be they gnome or dwarf, are apparently giving the glittery apparition perched at the sticky bar a wide berth. Not that a person can blame them. Cackling like that should send a shiver down the spine of any fairy tale creature with even an ounce of ale-sodden self preservation.

“So that’s who has it!” Madame Sarsenet… um… cackles.

Right. Now she’s rubbing those pudgy hands together and… more cackling.

Okay. Well, that was worth the trip.

Moving on.

***

Fortified by a healthy afternoon tea with the wolf—involving plenty of bacon—Elaine is off down the road again, having been pointed in the direction of the nearest village and the most likely location of Ol' Stilskyn by a helpful lupine paw.

But the travails of the fairy tale traveler are many, dear reader. The current one in our girl’s case appears to be the weather. Hot does not begin to describe it.

“Toads and cockerels, it’s hotter than a fire giant’s ass!”

Or perhaps it does.

Well, said fair damsel. Well said.

Though the clouds building up in the east are looking a bit, shall we say, ominous? And I could have sworn I just heard thunder. Unfortunate. A downpour of rain will certainly dampen the mood.

*wink*

Yes? No?

Oh, fine. A person can’t even tell a simple water joke without—

“Water!”

Yes. That’s what I said. Wat—Oh!

Water.

It appears out valiant girl has reached a stream. And a flock of goats.

But never mind the goats.

This delightful woodland brook uncurls out of the trees near a fork in the road, neatly bisecting the right hand path with a small stone bridge. A sign post stands between these bucolic byways, pointing one arrow toward Trollsbridge on the left and another toward Water Mill Road on the right.

Huh. I’d think the bridge road would be Trollsbridge and the other…

Oh well. No accounting for tastes. Our girl certainly isn’t concerned with nonsensical naming practices. She is too busy shooing the goats out of her path and picking her way down the bank for a much needed drink and a splash of cool liquid on her face. And so long as there’s no actual trolls hiding under the bridge in our girl’s immediate vicinity—

*crunch*

Um…

Reader, did you…

*crunch-crunch*

Our brave heroine has frozen, cupped water halted halfway to her face. Vaguely crunching noises emanating from the shadows beneath a bridge are an ominous portent in any self-respecting fairy tale. More so when—

I beg your pardon! We are a very respecting of self fairy tale. Just because we might… perhaps… on occasion… everyotherepisode indulge in an insignificant little pun doesn’t mean we—

Oh, fine. Fine! Back to the crunching and the wooo! scary bridge investigating. Ungrateful little tripe.

What? No! Nothing, nothing.

Where were we? Ah, yes.

Elaine is peering into the bridge shadows—and swatting at the goat attempting to eat her traveling cloak—as another *crunch* sounds and a few small stones dislodge from the bank and tumble into the rush of water below.

“Hello?” One wet hand gropes behind her for a sufficiently sized rock. “You might as well come out. I know you’re there.”

Our girl’s questing fingers close on a pleasantly plump stone big enough to leave a comfortable dent in even the thickest of skulls.

“If you’re trying to scare folks, you picked the wrong girl. The day I’ve been having, spooky noises in the shadows don’t even rate.”

Silence, but for the continuous rush of the stream and the occasional maaa from the goats.

“I said come out! You beastly, old, worm-eaten piece of troll sh—”

A round little face covered in white powder peeks cautiously out of the shadows and blinks two very human blue eyes at her.

“Are… are they gone?” The voice that accompanies this apparition is barely an audible whisper over the babbling of the brook.

Elaine lowers her stone and frowns at the… boy? Yes, fair reader I do believe that is actually a boy. A rather rotund little boy whose blue jacket and brown hair appear to be covered in… um… flour blended liberally with… *sniff*… ginger?

Right. A ginger boy.

“Um,” Elaine carefully sets the rock back on the bank. Out of sight but not out of reach because, well really, let’s not be unreasonable here. “Are who gone?”

“The Breadmen.”

“The who?”

“The Ginger Breadmen!”

“Oh. Right. Um. Nope. Haven’t seen anyone—anyone else—matching that description.” She frowns again. “Why are you hiding from these Breadmen?”

“They’re evil!” The boy’s voice is definitely above a whisper now. “They kidnap children and… and… use us to make pastries!”

Elaine’s brows raise. “They force you to work for them?”

“Maaa!” the nearest goat interjects.

Quite right, my goaty friend. These Breadmen do sound like brutes.

“No!” A small foot stamps in frustration, sending another shower of pebbles into the water. “They use us IN their pastries.”

“Bleedin’ hell and all the angels.”

Oh my.

“Wait.” Elaine waves a hand vaguely at the boy’s small but chubby frame. “Is that why you’re covered in… um… flour?”

"Yes, ma'am.” The boy rubs ineffectually at his dusty jacket. “I sort of accidentally-on-purpose knocked over the shelves with all the flour and spices.”

Oh, good lad!

“I ran away while the room was full of flour dust and,” he tentatively licked his sleeve, “ginger. Maybe some cinnamon too.”

Another distant roll of thunder rumbles over the woodland valley. Though not near as distant as it was before. Those clouds do seem to be getting closer. Oh, dear.

Not that our girl has noticed. Oh, no. Our fair fairy tale maiden has thrown her hands up and announced to the world at large:

“I knew it! I knew this forest had cannibal gingerbread makers! I said so all the way back at the dwarves’ house. But did anyone believe me? Nooo!”

The goats scatter across the road to the forest verge at this outburst. Meanwhile, our little escapee from said cannibals has taken a quick step back toward the safety of his bridge.

“Um. Who are you talking to?”

Elaine freezes, something like a faint blush creeping into her cheeks.

“Uh. No one. Sorry.” She straightens her sleeves. “So, where did you last see these murderous bakers of gingerbread?”

“I don’t think they actually make gingerbread. They use our bones for bread,” he shudders, “and the rest of us for,” his face turns the color of the flour, “other things. But I didn’t see any actual gingerbread.”

Elaine frowns. “Then why do you call them the gingerbread men?”

“Because they’re the Breadmen and they’re—”

“Cooee!” a voice shouts from up the Trollsbridge road. “Little boy!”

Elaine’s new friend darts back under the bridge, disappearing into the shadows once more.

A second, angrier voice follows the first. “Run, run you little brat. Run as fast as you can. We’ll still catch you. We are the Breadmen. No one escapes us.”

A moment later the owners of the voices come into sight around the wooded bend.

“Oh,”Elaine says, “ginger bread-men. Right.”

Indeed. The proprietors of the cannibalistic patisserie are indeed ginger. Very ginger. As in blazing carrot orange hair and enough freckles to almost hide their pale skin. At least so far as we can tell under the coating of flour.

They’re also rather large and… troll-like. In fact, they look as if they could be near relations of… what was that barkeep’s name? You know, the one back in episode one who looked like a bad mating between a ginger-haired werewolf and an angry troll with a legendary case of acne? That one. What was—

“Gary! I knew the food in that joint was bad news,” Elaine grimaces as she turns back to the stream, loosening the laces on her bodice as she does. “Good thing I passed out before I ate any. Might have to thank Robyn for that if I see him again. Or at least not kick him quite so hard.” She considers for a moment before splashing more water on her face. “Or not.”

“You!” the angrier, and more flour bespattered of the two shouts, jabbing a thick troll-like finger at her, spittle flying. “You there! Have you seen a little boy run this way?”

Our brave girl spins around and plants her fists on her hips.

“I beg your pardon!” Elaine snarls with enough acid in her voice to curl an iron paperweight. “How dare you! Sneaking up on a lady when she’s taking a bit of privacy to wash the road off. Did your mothers not teach you better?”

The smaller less angry Breadman grins a toothy grin that’s missing a few teeth as he peruses the sight of our valiant heroine flushed, dripping, and in significantly looser corsetry.

“Mama beat him o’er the head with a iron club. Didn’t do much,” he murmurs as his eyes continue to devour the obvious evidence of Elaine’s absolute and total fib.

The larger Breadman glares at his… brother?… and snarls, “We are looking for a rotund butterball of a child. Most likely covered in flour. He is instrumental to our new bakery production and must be located.”

He begins to sniff the air in a rather alarming and troll-like manner, and takes a step toward the bridge.

“Well that’s just rude!” Elaine snaps hurriedly, marching up the bank to block his progress as she reties the laces on her gown. Much to the younger brother’s disappointment. “Demanding information of a body before even being properly introduced.”

“We’re the Traveling Breadmen,” the younger of the half-trolls offers. “Probably heard of us.”

“No, I have not,” Elaine snaps. “And no I haven’t seen any children for you to enslave in your little hipster venture.”

“No, no, no!” Ginger the Younger assures her hurriedly. “We don’t enslave ‘em. Terrible waste. Not when they taste so good in our pies.”

“Idiot!” Ginger the Elder slaps his younger, dimmer brother upside the back of the head.

Elaine feigns curiosity. “Huh. Can’t say I’ve tried it myself but I suppose the flavor profile could be interesting.” She frowns. “But why the Traveling?”

Ginger the Elder gives her a hard stare. "We travel to discover new flavors. We are artists, after all. And the soul of creativity is variety.”

“Plus, once we picked off all the fat ones in a village… well… kinda slim pickins.” Ginger the Younger waggles his orange brows. “Get it? Slim?”

How dare you, sir! Dreadful puns are my line. You have your own artistic area of expertise—murderous pastry baking *shudder*—I’ll thank you to remove yourself from mine.

*SLAP*

“Oof!”

Apparently Ginger the Elder agrees with me.

“Riiiight,” Elaine gives a slow, exaggerated nod. “Got it.”

The Elder Ginger sniffs again. “Interesting. I believe I smell our—”

“You know who would be fascinated by your work?” Elaine jumps in his path again. “Mistress Mellifluous of Mount Moon. She is a great connoisseur of all things… cooked. Though she probably prefers hers a little more well done. And she has strong opinions on children.”

He takes another sniff and tries to step around her. She sidesteps with him.

“And rich! Did I mention she’s rich? Honestly, she’d probably be interested in investing. You should really meet her. Preferably in the most crunchy and charbroiled way possible.”

Ginger the Elder glares down at her as he announces to his brother, “You know, Ed, I do believe this young lass is attempting to hide our quarry from us.”

Ginger the Younger, or Ed, still rubbing his head after the fraternal blow, frowns hard at this. “Uh. Why?”

Oh yes, bright this one.

“Because,” Elder Ginger snaps, “I can smell the little brat on the air!”

“Really? All I smell is goat.”

Ginger the Elder ignores this and takes another, far more menacing, step toward Elaine.

“Perhaps we ought to try a new flavor this week. We haven’t baked any Maiden Pie in years. It’ll make a nice change.”

“Um…”

Once again, our brave girl appears to be all out of words. All she can do is stare and stagger back as a large, floury, and very troll-like hand reaches out for her.

Oh, dear.

…

***

Meanwhile at the Withershins Inn…