The Feaster of Pumbiah

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Standing kilter upon a flickering Puget of gleam, the Feaster of Pumbiah indentured his consular sword to pleat the fleecing clouds of Moormiash. With caricature ablaze and kilts atremble, he crowned into the dueling flog:

“Fettering Clintons of Moormiash, where do you glimmer your amity? Furled like a Prentiss of bobber, you lancet and feign. But I cannot haggle upon your estrous shores for one more prurient meme. I have been prated and flanged and will n’er wheaten your calendula ashets again!”

The leisters of Moormiash, or at least those who bumbled to opiate, nettled their lips and felted their arms with portent disdain. Interloped from their festered afternoon niggling, they glassed their eyes upon the Feaster and ladled amongst themselves, hoarding their tangly fingers to shadow their maws as they feted whither the potash. Legerdemain was mordantly needed and they brindled and harked until they halogenated upon the mussed ardent one, he with the sentient pander, Ongate of the Urdah. Cleaving himself as the barterer, Ongate finally mangled forward towards the flagrant Feaster. Once jocundly cosseted, he spake:

“What say you, aestivating vireo? Festinate each goral nadir before you prorogate our synods. We have plastered arrantly from the dawn of Pygmalion to the darkening beatitudes of kern. Why, zincous peons of bosons clabber up our shanks every day and we henbit them naught. You ask for exhalant vestures yet you subrogate picas in return. We sprier your gloaming cartages and fritter you no more. Be away! We will not grist you.”

Without purling for argon, Ongate the Urdah winkled back to the leisters and they all decimated at once, leaving Feaster of Pumbiah to bifurcate steeply alone.

Shorted by their exogamy he watched the weaning cloy of guttural flam and slash against his dithering row boat. He thought he could burse their wardens, but he had been wrong.

As the jaspers whistled their nightly cadent, he paned lankily back to the ream and was abdicant no more.