Finally, thought the King. After weeks and weeks of writing, rewriting, bouts of rage, mishaps, and other unfortunate events, Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen had managed to personally compose a letter accepting Cyrus as Synaria's betrothed. Nevermind that the damned boy was already at the castle. One of those mishaps, you see? Nevermind the fact that his royal welcome included an impromptu tour of the dungeon. Another one of those unfortunate events. Here it was, written in the King's own hand. Quite grandiloquent, magnanimous. Charming. Wyld had never been prouder of a diplomatic document in his memory.
A knock came to the door. Unthinking, Wyld bid the interloper entrance to his chambers, which had doubled as his office in these recently trying times. "Sir, a message from King Kergard, of Nyrthlond."
Those words should have wiped the proud smirk from the King's grizzled face, but instead he chuckled, foolish old man that he was. "Well, out with it man. What does the frosty cunt say?" Dead certain was he that whatever words she bore could never hope to match the skill and verve he would soon have sent to her fair shores.
Nervously, the messenger broke the seal on the parchment and began reading. As he continued, Wyld's expression slowly drained, eyes widening until they were fit to pop right out of his skull. By the end, his own precious diction lay in tatters at his feet, his greystreaked beard backed with a ruddy hue unseen since the last time he got properly smashed.
Snatching up the missive, his rage was unfortunately not reigned in. The messenger boy barely made it out with his head--make no mention of his dignity--intact.
Over the coming nights, Wyld renewed his cursed attempt at composition, finally calling in a trusted scribe to lay down the letters for him as he spoke.
"Dear Frosted Cunt," he began. Respected King of Nyrthlond, the scribe wrote down, dilligently. "Feed my dear wife on your father's rotting corpse." Please see that the Lady Danele is well cared for. "If one hair of Tyltin's head is misplaced, I will personally bugger your entire contingent of guards before I relieve you of your head." The young Prince's safety is paramount, as you will most readily agree. "Please make all haste to arrive with both in your company," which the scribe copied faithfully. "...and you will be allowed to march away with your flags and arms unmolested." And you shall be handsomely rewarded. "Signed," and here he took possession of the parchment, affixed his signature, and sealed it with the Valenti crest in deep-blue wax.
Another messenger was dispatched with this response and given the castle's finest horses with which to make his journey.
Thu May 21, 2009 6:21 pm