In the days of yore, when kings ruled and knights jousted, there came a jester of such wit, the very stones of the castle would chortle. Heath, they named him, the fool whose folly was wise, whose tongue was as sharp as Excalibur and twice as keen.
Each morn, as the cock’s crow roused the sun, the court awaited Heath’s jests as they would the daily bread. His mirth cut through the gloom like a beacon of light, banishing sorrow to the shadows whence it came. Even the royal crown seemed to sit lighter in the presence of his japes.
He juggled words as deftly as he did baubles, spinning tales that danced like fairies in the twilight. His pranks were the stuff of legend, concocting such revelry that even the most stoic of knights oft found themselves with a grin. For in Heath’s hands, humor was a chalice from which all men wished to drink.
Fancy thyself a cap of bells, that with each tilt and turn, sings a tune of merry folly? Or perchance, a motley garb, bright and bold, fit for the king’s own mirth-maker? And lo, behold this bauble, a fool’s scepter that commands laughter as a king commands his court.
Pray, hit yon ‘random’ button with the merriment of a jester’s leap. For within awaits a trove of tales, each a testament to the jester who could jest a smile onto even the stone-faced gargoyle perched aloof upon the battlements.