Gilan's Mustache

Aghast, Will recoiled with a horrified expression. There, yonder, stood a horrible sight: Gilan posed heroically, foot propped on a chest, left hand poised elegantly on his chest, the other holding out his cloak behind him; he gazed heavenward, a poetic countenance about him. But that was not what horrified Will: no,'twas Gilan's face; for upon it was a mustache.

"Pray tell, foolish sir, what thou sport upon thy noble visage?"

"Forsooth, cans't thou not tell 'tis a mustache?"

"As much I gathered, good man, yet it puzzles me greatly why."

From a corner, Halt rolled his eyes incredulously.

"You both sound like you barfed up a Shakespeare play," he sneered. Will turned on him with an irritated look.

"Hush, coarse interloper! Thou art not supposed to know who good man William is." He turned back to Gilan, striking a melodramatic pose.

"Prithee, I ask thou once again, why dost thou sport that belittling 'stache?"

Gilan changed his pose, standing before Will.

"I wast thinking unto myself, 'would I not look manlier if I didst grow a mustache?' and so I did."

Halt snorted sarcastically. Will looked at him strangely, but said to Gilan:

"Who gavest thou that idea? For methinks it suits thou ill indeed."

Bristling, Gilan pouted indignantly. "I care not what thou thinkest; I say it suits me well."

Finally, Halt stood to leave. "I'm leaving you sots before my ears start bleeding." But neither of his former apprentices noticed the devious glimmer in Halt's eyes.

"Boy won't know what hit him," he muttered under his breath; if he wasn't THEE Halt, he might've cackled.