Day Two Hundred-Four: Omega Fist

Son of a shit, diary, bad stuff happened today. And to ME, of all people! Who would want something bad to happen to ME!? I'm the lovable Dragomir! I have my own house 'n everything! Bad things don't happen to homeowners, I assume!

King Jeffrey called all of the guards into his throne room this morning to 'discuss' the issue of the strike. And when I say 'discuss' I mean that he wanted to yell at us all, because it was CLEARLY our fault that the strike wasn't coming to an end. Doesn't have ANYTHING to do with Jeffrey's erratic decrees.

And mistreatment of the common folk.

And propensity for murder and torture.

And his warlike foreign policy.

And his bizarre, BIZARRE demand that everyone wear one green sock on Mondays and Fridays. What the hell is that about, anyway?

Oh, and his feeding of short stories to animals. There's always that. Bloodysunuvabitchgrr.

(I'm mostly over that, now, honest. Seeing Jeffrey get pasted by a tomato was all the justice I needed. I totally cheered when that happened the other day, diary - but only in my head.)

So here's what he had to say to us, in a nutshell. Imagine a lot of pacing and strenuous hand gestures accompanying this speech, 'cause Jeffrey looked downright crazy:

"Our loyal subjects have clearly gone insane. That is the only explanation. How else could our mighty guards have failed so spectacularly? You, too, must all be sick! Diseased minds! There is a plague about this castle, and we will have it no longer! We demand that you put an end to this charade once and for all! If you cannot stop the protestors today, we will order you all killed, and since you are the guards and soldiers, you will have to kill yourselves! Unless you want suicide on your immortal resumes, then you'd damn well better get to work! Go beat the crap out of those people!"

Great orders, right? I thought so. I mean, I'm so awesome at beating people up and all. I should seriously start a tally of all the people I beat up. The number would no doubt be a giant ZERO.

Once the king left in a huff, The Baron took the stage. He gave us much more sensible orders: contain the mob. Push them into the centre of the castle. That way, he said, they'd at least all be accounted for, and not running about destroying things. We've had some minor reports of sabotage in the kitchens, and by the gods, The Baron wasn't gonna let THAT happen. He's got quite a belly, so I can see where he's coming from.

We tried, diary. We tried so hard to force all of the strikers back into the main thoroughfare. Moving in squads of five guards / royal guards / soldiers we patrolled the castle walls, telling anybody who was involved with the strike to get the hell back to their little camp. The show of force started out just fine, and for a good half hour our patrols did their job -

- until one of 'em, MINE, was confronted by a much bigger group of strikers. Like, forty of 'em. All armed, all surly, all mouthing off at us. The guy leading them was Horace, the blacksmith who made Eve's bassinette when she was still a normal baby.

"G'won home, chaps," he said, brandishing a hammer. "This ain't for ya. We do what we want."

The royal guards Omega Corpser leading my squad, a blunt-faced man named Brock, seemed quite unimpressed. "You get one warning. Go back to the square. Now."

"Don't think we oughta do that, aye, boys?" The smith held up his hammer.

Everyone surrounding him cheered, 'cept for one woman who told him not to be sexist. They all laughed.

"Aye." The smith tapped his hammer against the royal guard's armour. "Y'be takin' those pansy white sleeves o'yers elsewhere."

Lemme tell you something about the Omega Corps, diary. These days they're mostly known for their Lord Knight, my darling Eve, who can destroy entire armies on her own. She kinda overshadows the rest of 'em. Guards or not, though, they ARE still knights, and they're all damned potent combatants. They've always been known as a cut above the rest, pansy white sleeves or not.

So it really shouldn't have surprised me when, the second the ringing of his armour stopped, the royal guard slammed Horace in the face with his fist. Horace's whole jaw shuddered and wobbled, as though it was made of horse jelly, and he staggered for a few seconds before collapsing. Horace is a heavy man, so the sound of his body slapping against the ground must've carried through the streets quite a ways.

That was the end of civil conversation. With the thud of Horace as their war cry the mob fell on us in an instant, bringing all manner of farming implements down on our heads. Everyone else in my squad fought back at least a little, Brock taking the lead with his spear, though the sheer number of peasants saw us soundly wallopeded. They left us bleeding in the streets and carried away their fallen blacksmith.

(I fully admit that I dropped to the ground and pretended I was unconscious as soon as Brock hit Horace. I knew what was gonna happen! I'm not a coward, I'm a realist!)

Brock forced us all back onto our feet, complained to himself about his outfit being "too bloody restrictive" to fight properly, and led the squad in pursuit. We didn't find THAT particular mob again as we staggered through the streets, looking for revenge…

… but, ah, we did find lots of OTHER mobs. Turns out the peasants didn't appreciate being told what to do, and their discontent exploded into a full-blown riot. There was fighting damn near everywhere, and judging by what I can hear, there still is. Lots of shouting outside my house, and I can smell smoke wafting through the windows.

Yep. Myyyyy windows.

So I may have abandoned my fellows and gone home. I'm no use to 'em. Why should I stick around? I have to guard my house! And my wife! There may be no danger to either of 'em, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't be protective, no sir!

Also, I hurt my knee. I don't feel like walking around.

Long story short, the castle's in a state of open revolt. As far as I can tell, everybody's clashing in the main thoroughfare. I don't know that anyone's getting KILLED, but I wouldn't be surprised if there are a few bodies in the morning.

Unless King Jeffrey manages to get Lord Knight Eve involved, of course. She must not care 'bout the fracas, 'cause everybody would already be dead if she felt like fighting. I doubt Jeffrey can convince her, but… if he does… things will get very messy, very fast. Thank the gods my little girl doesn't listen to his every command. Or… almost any of his commands, frankly. Maybe she should be in charge?

Hm. I guess she will be, one day. Kinda. If she marries Prince Logan. Which she will. I guess I should be proud about that? Still bloody weird.

Gotta go, diary. Libby 'n I decided to turn out the lights and pretend we're not home. Avoiding this whole catastrophe sounds right peachy. And if I have to attend Robert's funeral tomorrow, well, I won't be surprised.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the AWOL