Singing swords, dancing swords, intelligent swords, smart swords, they all got it easy, see. They got it so sweet. Sometimes, in my darker moments, I wish I was ordinary. You know, just an ordinary everyday sword that sits in some meathead?’s fist and chops up folk that??ve ticked him off. At least it?’s an honest living. And it passes for heroic.

And yes, I??m made from star-geld, the metal of choice of all master sword makers, and yes, I was made by a master fairy sorcerer thousands of years ago, none other than Istaghass Yhore himself (though I hear they prefer to be called elves these days?omore macho). But no, I??m not a sword. I??m a one of a kind. Perhaps the only of my type. I??m Rysovynn-thael the Enchanted Letter Opener of Yhore, but you can call me Rhys.

Now c??mon, be polite.

But this isn??t my story. My story would fill enough books to hold up a Prince?’s libido. This is about Frank.

Now Frank was a minotaur, as you all know, but if your mind?’s eye has him at 7??4?? with a great axe, dressed in double mail and spiked plate, well, just flush that image straight down the cranial can now. It?’s a product of the sagas, and if I had a mouth I??d spit. Frank was short for a minotaur, at around 6??2??, which, along with his horns, is where he got the ?’Stubby?? tag. He never wore armor, while I was with him anyway, and he certainly never touched a great axe, not even to chop wood. So, let me tell you the truth.

No, sorry Frank, not the truth. Let me give you the facts.

For a start, Frank wore glasses. Round steel rimmed specs custom made on the south coast of the Hurghian Sultanate to order. His eyes were large, as big as twenty twit pieces, and the darkest brown. When he was thinking they??d bore into you, like dwarven drills. His horns were short and uneven?othe left went up and the right went down and his mouth was as soft as butter.

Other bulls thought he was a pussy.