“Ah, my dear friends!” Rictavio exclaims, slamming his mug on the table, ale splashing dramatically. “You’ve never known terror until you’ve seen the Moon-Eating Manticore of Mordentshire!

It was a beast the size of a windmill, with wings so vast they could blot out the stars. Every full moon, it would climb the cliffs by the sea, open its jaws, and swallow the moon whole!”

He gestures wildly, miming the act. “The poor villagers lived in darkness for days, stumbling about and bumping into cows and wells. Children were born pale from lack of moonlight!”

“But I,” he says, tapping his chest, “Rictavio the Ringmaster, would not let such lunacy continue! So I baited the beast with my own caravan, every lantern blazing like a false moon.”

The patrons lean in.

“When the monster swooped down—ROAR!—I leapt from the caravan roof, armed with nothing but a silver dinner plate and a jar of honey! With the plate, I reflected the moonlight into its eyes; with the honey, I glued its jaws shut! And so the Moon-Eater fell, rolling into the sea, where it learned to live off kelp and regret.”

He leans back, grinning. “And that, my good sirs, is how I saved the tides, restored the moon, and ruined a perfectly good dinner plate.”