Something Different
Dated: 26 February 2026
Greetings, dear listeners of the realm,
Your humble scribe returns, quill sharpened, paper fresh-pressed, and ready to tell a tale. This issue will veer from the course of the normal “theme” here in the IllyQuill.
The Tale
Scene — Exterior. Twilight.
The sun has slipped from the sky, though light still lingers in the clearing. A great tree rises at the center. Before it stands a puppet stage.
The stage is solid hardwood — possibly cherry — with intricate carvings along the arch and base. It is sturdy. Carefully made.
It is also decorated as if by a child.
Across the proscenium hangs a banner:
THE NOT INFORMATIVE PLACE
Each word is printed in uneven rainbow capitals, three letters per landscape sheet of printer paper, taped clumsily across the arch. Planning was optional.
A red velvet curtain hangs closed.
It parts.
Behind it, a heathered beige backdrop — perhaps a retired potato sack — hangs surprisingly smooth.
Narrator: Welcome, one and all! Thank you for attending this non-informative and not particularly well-written play. It is also, I should warn you, inaccurate.
Two puppets pop up.
On the left: Freyja, a green felt orc in a linen robe, spectacles perched upon a drawn-on face. Her features are permanent marker bold, and crudely drawn. Her mouth opens and closes with the unmistakable motion of a sock puppet.
On the right: Sonorous, a female dwarf with brown yarn hair and hastily fashioned armor. She moves with theatrical enthusiasm.
Freyja [sighing heavily]: Finally. We’re getting started. This whole thing is lame. It could’ve been put together much better.
Sonorous [leaning dramatically toward the audience, then retreating, repeatedly]: I, for one, enjoy the overly dramatic camera zooms.
Two more puppets rise behind them.
Bill — a young-adult human male, with four deliberate lines of peach fuzz and a gold-toned cloak.
Monkey — brown fur, blonde hair, banana in hand, expression permanently surprised.
Bill [laughing]: This playwright writes like a child.
Freyja [instantly]: Yes! The writer doesn’t seem to know much. That quest section was lame. They could’ve said far more. They think all I do is talk about one quest!
Monkey [muttering]: So… the writer is Bill.
Sonorous performs another aggressive “camera zoom.”
From the left wing emerges Thorfinn — short, unkempt, loincloth-clad, holding a small flag that reads CHILL in familiar rainbow capitals.
Thorfinn [grunts, then snorts]: I think it’s pretty epic.
Monkey: Thorfinn, you only know the words “chill,” “epic,” and “prestige build.”
Thorfinn [chuckles]: Real.
Bill [straightening, assertive]: So the writer is someone from Chill. Inflating your ego?
Thorfinn: Chill sends the most troops and pushes alliances to send millions via peace.
A pause.
Bill [with a polished smile]: I’m going to burn down your house. For peace.
A faint wobble as one puppet leans too far forward.
Thorfinn [laughing]: I’d love to see the day you try.
Bill: I bet you would.
All puppets shuffle together, slightly misaligned, and bow.
The curtain draws closed.
Narrator (calmly): And thus concludes tonight’s entirely unofficial account. Please exit in an orderly fashion, and take your outrage with you.
In Closing
I hope you enjoyed my tale. It was inspired by those it features, with the imagery generating in my own imagination.
Until next time,
— The IllyQuill 🪶
The Quilly 