The villagers gathered round as it had been promised that this night OverlongBeard would speak of Wee Yin, one of the more curious members of the Yuan-Och, the hundred and four strong clan of Chinese-Scottish folk heroes.

He babbled on as was his wont with preambles and backstory and various asides about the nature of the Yuan-Och, of the land in which they floundered and the times in which they eked.

“But enough of these things of no interest”, the people said almost as one, “it is Wee Yin we are here for. What of her battles with the most evil Marissa The Inconsistent, of her travails with Sirah The Ungainly and birdlike, and her friendship with Litovec The Dark but dislike of his twin Litovec The Light.”

“Patience, I will speak of all these things,” said Overlongbeard, “but you must let me set the stage a little, ease you into the tale, as it were”.

“Ease this!”, shouted out the Bootlick Ormon rubbing his maimed hand between his legs “Yes, ease this..”, the crowd took up the cry and alternated between the Bootlick’s motion and revealing half their backsides, of which it should be noted, that few were worthy of public attention though suffering the many stunted or mottled rears might be considered worth the too short contemplation of the few that were sweet and inviting even while protruding in intended insult.

“Alright, alright, I will get right to it then” said the elder while averting his gaze from the multifarious assault of skin from so many.

The holder of memories waited until the cacophony of the rebuttoning of bodkins and cummerbunds, the replacing of pants divots and the shuffling of chaps and culottes(for the group was no small collective of variation on lower body wear) interspersed with errant farts and wheezes died down. “And let it not be said that I failed to mention her everwhile but rarely seen companion, the Godless Romantic (or as she sometimes referred to him: the Fucking Sap) or her longtime nemesis PrakIndira who even in her earliest of incarnations, even as a pixie like little one year old bundle of joy, Wee Yin could only with lip acurl refer to as “that cunt”, and though at the time it seemed excessive, the later growth in both stature and evil caused her appellation to be quite appropriate. Prakindira at her zenith was as large as a mountain, with a similar sloth and intractitude, and beware any who ventured within the reach of either her monstrous arms or her twitching toes.

But enough of these things…onto Tale One.