Rated for language that isn't technically language, but it never hurts to be on the safe side. Especially with double entendres.
The Last Dictation of the Late Grailkeeper
The cave was cold and dank and utterly cave-like, and Gideon did not like it one bit. The damp seeped through the thin cloth of his leggings as he knelt on the rock-hard floor — made rockily so by its rocky composition; limestone, if he wasn't mistaken — of the cavern within which he and Joseph of Arimathea had sought refuge from the elements. As he scraped at the water-coated walls with his trusty chisel — reliably blunt as always — he could only sigh to himself and faithfully carve the last words of the late Grailkeeper, wondering all the while how everything had gotten to be such a mess.
It had been such a lovely morning. The sun was shining, the air was clear of pollution, the water was a bit murky and suspect, but that was nothing unusual, besides which, the Grail would take care of that, and they had plenty of food and supplies... until their ass fell into the river and got washed away, food, supplies, and all. And then, rather than try and retrieve the poor beast of burden or at least stop for a drink, Joseph of Arimathea had pressed on saying only, "The Lord will provide," in his ever-mystical and mysterious trademark Grailkeeper voice.
They would have been fine, however, had they pressed on until reaching an outpost of civilization, but no. Sometime around noon, the elderly Grailkeeper began experiencing a faltering of his constitution and so decided upon a break for water near a limpid puddle of suspect coloration surrounded by rather brightly red stones — arsenic, Gideon had suspected at the time and so warned Joseph of Arimathea, but all he said in reply was that "The Grail shall make all things pure."
And the Grail did, only the water wasn't so much water as an impure, liquefied suspension of mercury and arsenic — arsenic and mercury which the Grail purified straight-up and which its Keeper guzzled like a dehydrated camel at an oasis. Consequently, and almost immediately, Joseph of Arimathea keeled straight over, and Gideon had to drag him to the nearest shelter, a system of cold, dank caves far, far away from the now-purely toxic pool of elements.
Which brought us to the present where Gideon was now carving the last words of a dying, wheezing Joseph of Arimathea, late Grailkeeper, whose words were incredibly difficult to decipher through all the choking and hacking and generally labored breathing. But Gideon had managed -- and managed quite well if he might believe so himself — and had transcribed so far, "Here may be found the last words of Joseph of Arimathea. He who is valiant and pure of spirit may find the Holy Grail in the Castle..." and now all he was waiting for now was the completion of the sentence.
Joseph of Arimathea coughed, cleared his throat, coughed again. "The Castle... Castle of... uuggggggh..."
Gideon paused in his carving. "Uuggggggh?" That was not a word he was familiar with, much less capable of spelling. Not for the first time, he cursed the barbaric Brits with their war paints and lack of written language for making his job that much more difficult. "How is that spelled, sir?"
No answer.
"Sir?" Gideon looked over his shoulder and almost broke his chisel. There, lying contorted on the cavern floor, blood coating his face and throat and black-nailed hands, was Joseph of Arimathea, late Grailkeeper, and lately dead.
Gideon swore in the ungodly fashion. Now he'd never know how to spell the name properly.
With a sigh, the ever-dedicated follower turned back to the wall and guessed that he would just have to guess. And guess he did, but wrongly for, centuries later, when a band of knights and their great king came by and tried to decipher the name of the location, their attempts summoned instead the dreaded Black Beast of Arrrggghhh.
But by then, Gideon was long past caring.
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