I have an explanation for the king's radical behaviour, diary. Not a SOLUTION, unfortunately, but an explanation.
It's the jester's fault. THAT FUCKING RAT-MURDERING PENGUIN.
Today's decree wasn't as crazy as yesterday's, and it at least allowed us to move about the castle: everyone had to pinch their nose when talking. The whole castle sounded nasally. We've had to do much worse things, of late, so I was fine with such a simple gesture.
I've been meeting with Edmund in the Beefiary whenever I've had a spare moment, and he's made himself comfortable in my home three nights running. Libby seems to enjoy his lyrical speech, and he makes a good competitor around the gaming board (we're trying to come up with a name for the game, speaking of which - any ideas?). So, y'know, nice to have a buddy.
It was during our gaming session, no less than an hour before I wrote this entry, that I discovered the truth behind all the decrees.
"DA PENGUIN?!" I shouted, standing up and away from the table. "Dat liddle bathtard ith rethponthible fer all… all thith… thith… thith?!" I pointed at the fingers on my nose, which is a surprisingly confusing action. Pointing at your own fingers? Bizarre.
Edmund frowned. He moved one of his gaming pieces across the board, into the Sanctified Zone. "'tith indeed tha penguin'th fault, / Dat we be thtuck in thith nathal tumult."
"Dat doeth'nt quite whyme," Libby pointed out. She stacked her two pieces on top of each other, forming a Reaver squadron. Deadly combo. "How did 'e do it?"
"I know not th'how, m'lady Liddy fair, /" Edmund replied, scowling at his predicament the game board, "But what I do know, I thall now thare."
Right. Enough of the rhyming. It's tough to remember exactly what he said. Great guy, that Edmund, but a scribe's worst nightmare.
Edmund was on call for King Jeffrey all this week, as I mentioned the other day, and he spent all yesterday in the king's chambers. Jeffrey apparently got bored while he was watching people through his telescope, and he ordered Edmund to play Jeffrey's theme song. Over and over. For five hours.
The kicker? Edmund couldn't move. He had to hum it. I think he regrets his position as head bard most mightily, now.
The king received numerous visits from the royal guards in that time, bringing him info about prisoners and scurrying off to snag more. In all that time, Kierkegaard, his faithful jester, only visited him ONCE. And he didn't fear moving about one bit. Indeed, when he came in the room, Jeffrey welcomed the jester with open arms…
… and a plea. "Can we stop this decree now? Our wife is firing cannons at our tower."
Kierkegaard thought about it, then shrugged and nodded. "Sure. I'm bored of statues. I'll think up something funnier for tomorrow."
Immediately after, King Jeffrey announced the cessation of the decree. Everyone was allowed to move again. Kierkegaard promptly insulted the king, earning himself a tentative laugh from Jeffrey, and sauntered out of the room.
Edmund was flabbergasted. He wanted DEARLY to ask the king why he took orders from a penguin. But Jeffrey looked to be in a cross mood, and he commanded his bard to leave him post-haste. The last Edmund saw of the king, Jeffrey was storming out of his quarters and up to the roost on the top of his tower, where Barrel lives. I kinda hope my dragon pal ate the king, but I've heard nothing of the kind, sooo…
Edmund was forced to follow Kierkegaard around today and make farting sounds out of a tuba, so he hadn't had a chance to share this info with anyone. What he learned makes him very uncomfortable, though, and I share his discomfort. If Kierkegaard is more or less in charge of the kingdom… well… what the hell is gonna happen to everybody? Are we on a sure path to ruination? He doesn't seem to have ANYONE'S welfare in mind, 'cept maybe his own.
Penguins. Bugger. Never trust 'em.
Sigh. I really miss The Baron. He never woulda put up with this crap. Even Driscol, damn his soul, would be better than Kierkegaard as a shadow leader. At least King Jeffrey would be gone by now, and we wouldn't have to tolerate this nonsense. The castle would be NORMAL under either of 'em, and normal… normal is boring, yeah, but at least normal is predictable.
Once Edmund finished his tale, we mostly sat in silence. There wasn't much else to tell, and besides, we had a game to finish. Libby wound up winning twenty-five to eighteen, with Edmund coming in last with a paltry negative ten. Good effort, on his part, but his gamble with the jack of sixers didn't pan out in the final inning.
Gods do I love Libby's game. It's so awesome.
I'm off, diary. It's getting late, Libby's annoyed at my candle keeping her awake, and I can hear the calls of the Weekendists through the window. Saturday is inevitable. Hopefully when we all wake up on Monday, a certain penguin will be dead and gone. I doubt it'll happen, but a guy can dream.
Sincerely,
Dragomir the Guard
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