Dice roll: old lady, Red Riding Hood, prisoner, Olympus, well, cart, chest, Trojan horse, quill & ink

Once upon a time, a young lady was visiting her grandmother.

"Grandmother," the young lady said, "tell me a story of your youth."

"This is another one of your homework assignments, isn't it?" the old woman asked.

"No, not at all," the young lady replied, shaking her head vehemently, displacing the hood of her cloak and pulling her hair free of its coiling braids. "I had so much fun listening to your last story, I just want to hear more!"

The old woman looked at the young lady suspiciously, then asked, "Then why are you hiding a pen and ink in your pocket?"

The young lady guiltily pulled the jar of ink and quill pen from the pocket of her cloak. "I brought them so I could write down your story. Not for my class this time!" she added quickly. "Just to ensure I remember it, for telling my kids one day."

The old woman sighed, "Oh, very well. I suppose it doesn't matter who hears these old tales of mine. They're the past. Who even bothers to think of these things anymore?" The old woman sighed again and mumbled incoherently to herself, then looked at the young lady. "What story did you hear last time, again?"

"About how you and your friends re-enacted the Trojan War! You even built a small version of the Trojan horse!" The young lady smiled. "My classmates all loved that story, by the way. Especially the part when your friends playing the Trojans decided to change the ending and burned the horse outside the city!"

"Ah, yes. The foolishness of youth," the old woman sighed. "My friends playing the Greeks nearly died, you know. We all got too caught up in the story and forgot our friends were inside the horse!"

The young woman pulled out a blank scroll and unrolled it, then dipped the quill into the ink. "What story are you telling me today, Grandmother?"

"The tale of Kingston Thurstad," the old woman replied.

"My grandfather?" the young lady asked.

"No, not Kingston Thurstad the Third," the old woman corrected. "Kingston Thurstad the First. Your great-great-grandfather. The story went something like this: Kingston Thurstad was a bit of a rogue. He claimed he could steal anything from anyone. He'd stolen a quill off a porcupine's back, the cornerstone from the Apollo temple, the scepter out of the hands of the statue of Ra down in Egypt... He'd stolen the jewels out of a lady's ring, while she was wearing it, and made off with the royal cloak, taken right from the back of the king as he rode by on his horse...

"One day, his friend dared him to steal the treasure chest hidden in the treasury of Zeus's hall on Mount Olympus."

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"Steal from Zeus himself?" Kingston echoed.

His friend laughed with delight. "Yes! If you truly want to be known as the greatest of thieves, you need to steal from the King of the Gods himself!"

"And what shall I gain for completing this dare?" Kingston asked.

"Whatever's in the treasure chest!" his friend replied glibly.

"Oh, no, if this is a dare, you must have something in this, too. What will you give me when I succeed?"

"I shall give you back the divining bowl you stole from the seer at Delphi that I stole from you." His friend crossed his arms and smirked. "You'll need it, if you're to avoid the wrath of Zeus for the rest of your life!"

Kingston nodded. "Very well." He turned to go.

"Wait! If you fail, what do I get?" his friend demanded.

Kingston paused in the doorway and replied without turning, "If I fail, I'll likely be struck dead by Zeus on the spot with one of his thunderbolts. You'll be able to claim my storehouse of treasures."

"Then give me the key now!" his friend replied, running after him. "You know it'll melt to nothing if you're hit by one of Zeus's lightning bolts. And if your storeroom door is opened without the key, all the treasures within are destroyed!"

Kingston laughed. "No, my friend, or you'll rob me blind while I'm away. I'll not fall for so simple a trick. If I fail, you'll need to figure a way to get the treasures."

"But—"

"No," Kingston repeated. "Besides, I didn't promise you my storeroom if I failed—just the treasures within." Kingston laughed as he hurried away, "When I succeed, you'll have no reason to be robbing my storeroom!"

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"Getting the chest proved far easier than anticipated," the old woman said. She smiled at the young lady and held up a finger; "Getting out with it, however..."

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Kingston, treasure chest tucked under one arm, raced through the marble halls of Olympus. Priests and attendants of the temple chased after him in a growing, shouting mob.

Finally bursting free from the temple, he raced into the courtyard and jumped onto the back of a straw-filled cart just leaving the grounds.

The driver of the cart, an old man, turned around at the jostling and looked at Kingston in surprise, then nodded at him, turned back around, and whipped the mule to a trot.

The angry mob was left behind.

The cart rolled into a town and the old man regarded Kingston. "So, young man, where'd you get that chest?"

Kingston grinned, but replied simply, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," the old man replied.

"Zeus himself," Kingston said.

The old man nodded. "Ah. Hence your rushed departure from the temple. Well, I advise you to hide that away until the fervor of the theft dies down—everyone will be searching for that, and anyone found with it will be executed."

"Oh, I'll hide it all right," Kingston replied with a grin. "I have a special storeroom—"

"Not good enough," the old man cut him off, shaking his grey head, wispy beard catching on his belt buckle by the action. "You need to hide it somewhere different. And soon." The old man gestured behind them. "I'll bet Zeus released the Pegasus Corps to hunt you down. They'll catch up soon."

The snorting of horses interrupted the conversation. Kingston turned, eyes widening at the sight of horses running through the skies behind them.

"Better hurry," the old man urged.

Kingston leapt from the cart and raced through the square, looking around wildly for a suitable niche. His eyes roved desperately as the snorting of the horses grew closer. Finally, his eyes latched on the well in the center of the square and he ran up and cast the chest down into the well, leaning hard on the stones until he heard the splash.

Sighing, he turned slowly and looked around. The old man and his cart were gone. Instead, winged horses, armored men astride them, filled the square.

"You," one of the armored men declared, pointing a gauntleted hand at him. "Thief."

The other soldiers surrounded him, hemming him in with horses and lances.

The soldier kneed his horse closer. "Where's the treasure you stole?"

Kingston looked up at the visored helm of the soldier before him and said simply, "What treasure? I have nothing." He held his empty hands out.

The soldier gestured to the others. "Take him. We'll keep him until the treasure can be recovered."

The soldiers grabbed Kingston and tied his arms behind his back, then hauled him up onto one of the horses, and the group ran and flew off again, heading back to Olympus.

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"So, Kingston Thurstad was thrown into the dungeon below Olympus," the old woman said. "The soldiers said he'd stay in that cell until the treasure chest was recovered." She chuckled. "They tried to convince him to reveal its location, but of course he refused."

"But," the young lady objected, "they were there when he was at the well! Didn't they see him throw it in? Or at least go check it, since he was standing there when they arrived?"

The old woman smiled and waved away the young lady's questions. "Patience, patience. You'll see. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, Kingston Thurstad was in the dungeon. He'd been there for what felt like eons, having no real way to tell time."

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The door to the cell opened. This time, instead of another jailer or soldier, the tall and stately Zeus walked in, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the door frame.

Kingston said nothing, but simply looked at the King of the Gods, hair limp and greasy about his head, hands numb in their shackles.

"So," Zeus said gravely. "You're the thief who dared to steal my treasure chest."

Kingston didn't reply.

"And no one has recovered it yet." Zeus stepped closer. "What's your name, thief?"

"Kingston," Kingston replied, voice quiet and raspy. He swallowed and cleared his throat loudly, then repeated louder, "Kingston Thurstad."

Zeus nodded, then produced a key from his pocket. He unlocked the shackles around Kingston's wrists, then linked his wrists with simple manacles and linked a longer chain to them. "Come along, Kingston Thurstad."

Kingston was led out of the dungeon like a dog on a leash.

Zeus continued to lead Kingston as they emerged into the daylight and Kingston stumbled, blinded by the brightness.

Kingston recovered his footing as he ran into something wooden. His hands felt along the edge, then quested forward and hit something prickly.

Chains clinking alerted Kingston as his vision finally cleared and the chains fell from his wrists.

Zeus gestured to the cart. "Go on home, Kingston Thurstad. You're gutsy and foolish. Brash and clever. The world needs more people like you." He shook one finger at Kingston as he added, "But stay out of my treasury from now on."

Kingston stared as Zeus seemed to blink out, form being replaced by the old man who'd driven him away from the temple stood before him. The old man winked and disappeared.

Kingston turned, dazed and still blinking away the dark spots from his eyes, and looked at the mule and the cart. Slowly, with hands still tingling from the shackles, he pulled himself up into the back of the cart. As he scrabbled through the straw to get to the front bench, his hands hit something hard hidden under the straw.

He dug rapidly, fingers clawed as he yanked at the straw to find the treasure chest, gold bands and edging blazing in the sunlight, bronze lightning bolt burnished and fiercely glowing.