In the Elvish kingdom of Nautican, where the courtiers curry favor through feats of seafaring prowess, the incident is known as “The Near Usurpation.” But Princes Carmelon and Twyland think on it as the day they almost lost a boat race to a pair of dwarves.

     On the day of the contest itself, nothing had at first seemed amiss. A sky stuffed with bulging cumulous loomed over a sea that lapped the princes’ sloop with lazy familiarity. Lazy, in fact, was the chief adjective they used to describe the day. The wind that buffeted their sails was lazy, the knots they tied in their rigging as they prepared for the race were lazy. And the confidence with which they themselves looked upon the event was lazy, lazily convinced of the coming victory. They'd only spent their all their lives as the most beautiful, skilled, and popular sailors in the Elvish court. Monthly they dazzled crowds by whipping their sloop through the seas below the cliff-side palace, cutting into the winds that whipped their golden locks away from their golden tanned faces and let the sun glint off the jewelry in their pointed ears, and the elvish ladies would swoon and King Rasmus would award them another medal. What was another race against the same stale peers before the same stale crowd. They would win today. Then they would do it again next week. Yawn. Huzzah.

     And then the monotony broke as a foreign vessel slunk along the shoreline. This sloop lacked the polished elegance and slick, carved beauty of the Elven ships. Patchwork sails splotched with grease stains and sooty smeared handprints rose above a dark hulk of wood that ploughed slowly through water. And on the deck stood two figures no Elf had ever seen upon a sailboat before. Both were short. Both were bearded. One was stooped double with a metal brace strapped round his torso in a vain attempt to straighten his spine. The other stood upright, but on a peg leg.

     Carmelon leaned across the tiller to his brother. “Are those dwarves?”

     Twyland squinted. “Mmmhmm.”

     “What are they doing here?”

     They watched as the peg legged Dwarf hailed the race master, handed forth a dirt caked parchment and a greasy coin pouch, then stumped back across his deck.

     “They intend to race,” said Twyland.

     “In that horror?” said Carmelon.

      Twyland nodded.

     “But it makes no sense! Dwarves live in mountains and mines and work metals and carve stone. They don't, sail.”

     “I know.”

     “That ship looks patched together from smelting gear or something.”

     “I know.”

     “They'll never win.”

     “I know.”

     “Then why bother?”

     Twyland shrugged. “Who knows. Let’s race.”

     A trumpet blast signaled the sailors take their marks. The twins knifed their sloop into line to a roar of applause. The dwarf boat crept along side them. Its sailors glared across. The one with the brace, who was stooped across the tiller, spit on the deck. The twins exchanged a nervous glance and took their places, Twyland at the sails and Carmelon at the tiller.

     At second trumpet blast, Twyland released the foresail and the sloop shot forward, squeezed by wind and tide. The crowd's cheers died in the swell of crashing waves, and the fleet of competitors receded into specks pocking the ocean surface.

     But the dwarf boat didn't dwindle. Instead, it glided along the waves, carving a steady path towards the elf twins’ sloop and the finish line. Sweat beaded on Carmelon's golden brow. Twyland felt compelled to tie back his flowing locks with a leather thong. The dwarf boat gained.

     The tiller slipped in Carmelon's grip. Twyland gave himself rope burn while adjusting the rigging. And the dwarf ship gained.

     As the rocky outcropping that marked the finish line loomed into view, the vessels drew neck and neck. Panic blossomed in the breasts of the elf twins. They looked into the sky and saw a telling flick in the clouds that foretold a fresh gust of wind was on its way. Twyland trimmed the sails for all his worth and caught the gust that buoyed them across the finish line just ahead of the dwarf boat's prow.

     The shocked, exhausted, and oddly exhilarated elf twins drew their vessels beside that of their opponents and crossed the deck to speak side by side.

     “Good effort!” cheered Twyland.

     “Indeed,” said Carmelon. “How you kept so steady in such choppy seas is a feat. Who knew dwarves could make decent sailors.”

     The peg legged dwarf nodded, though any further expression was lost in a thicket of facial hair. “Tis always been a dream of ours, to sail against the great Nautican twins,” said the dwarf, extending a hand. Meanwhile, the stooped dwarf shuffled forth with an autograph book in hand. The peg legged patted the stopped dwarf on the back brace and said, “My sister's a huge fan.”

     “Sister?” gasped Carmelon.

     The peg legged dwarf chuckled and tugged her beard. “All we dwarves have beards, laddie. You were almost bested by a pair of sailing she-dwarves.”

     Twyland shook hands with both of them. “T’would have been our honor, ladies. Until next year, then?”

     “Oh no. You owes us a dance, methinks. At the after party.”

     And thus the princes learned the value of a little competition, and never to underestimate an opponent based upon looks alone, all because once upon a time, a pair of dwarven fan girls dreamed of sailing.

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The End.