“Oh no, m’lord,” the peasent said. “You must not take that road. That path will take you through the Forest of Swingles, and you will surely not emerge unscathed therefrom.”
“Nonsense, simple farmer,” said the duke, “that route may mean death for you, unarmed and untrained, but my sword is keen and my armor strong. I fear neither death nor injury.”

“Nay, m’lord, the Forest of Swingles offers peril not to one’s body, but one’s soul. It tempts them with pleasures of the flesh, and few who travel through it are able to stay true to their marital vows.”

“Oh?” the duke said.

“Aye, m’lord. To come out of the Forest of Swingles without a dryad side chick or a centaur himbo is exceedingly rare.”

“I thank thee for the warning, simpleton,” said the duke, flipping a coin to the peasant. Then, to his horse: “Onward to the Forest of Swingles!”

“But m’lord! What about the duchess?”

“What about her?” the duke, already half a league away, called over his shoulder.

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