So.
If you're reading this, chances are you're already a follower of my somewhat heroic, occasionally scandalous, often undercompensated adventures with the Dragon. You've no doubt heard the rumors — that little chapter in my storied life where I ended up in the company of the Sisterhood.
Yes. That Sisterhood. The Amazons. The bald-headed, bicep-flexing, spear-twirling terror brigade with a chant for every occasion and a terrifying enthusiasm for barefoot marching.
Now, first of all — and I cannot stress this enough — I respect the Sisterhood. Deeply. Truly. Sincerely.
I mean, come on: the feminism. The collective empowerment. The dismantling of oppressive structures. The glorious sisterly solidarity forged in sweat, mud, and shared trauma... yada... yada...
Really inspirational stuff.
But if I had to be perfectly honest (which is not a habit I encourage), I prefer them from a safe distance. Preferably several counties away. Maybe even a petty kingdom or two. A nice solid city-state in between. And a river. With crocodiles.
Because here's the thing: I admire women who fight the system. I do. I just don't think the system they want involves me wearing matching uniforms, shaving my head, or giving up shoes.
Anyway, as fate — or spiteful irony — would have it, I did end up conscripted by the Sisterhood. Long story. Involved fire. Maybe a stolen sheep. Definitely a burned village. Let's not dwell.
Now, if you're one of those curious types — the kind who hears "less than honorable discharge" and thinks, Ooh, tell me more! — then buckle in.
Because this little detour wasn't part of the plan. There were no scams. No dragon to rescue me. Just me, alone, surrounded by women who could bench-press oxen and thought sarcasm was a character flaw.
So yes. This is the tale of how I survived the Sisterhood.
Mostly.
Not with honor. Not with dignity. But with teeth, lies, and stubbornness.
Shall we begin?