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Description
There lay the king. His royal highness. Golden crown, emeralds in it even. Dark-red mantle, richly textured, yet drooping down the stairs like drool from the lips of a mentally challenged. He lay, sprawled out, lazily, carelessly on the final few steps of the wide white marble stairway that lead up to the castle entrance. Drunk. Without a shadow of a doubt, absolutely smashed.

He had a fatty, swollen, sweat-covered face, this king. And way to much skin for a man as puny as him (as likewise, there was way too much dark-red mantle for a king as puny as this king). He looked aged. Not old, but very-aged. And drunk. His gaze was set upon things beyond the edges of this world. Eyes that slightly missed every object when trying to look at it, but might seem focused exactly at some specific object while trying to look elsewhere or nowhere.

When Tommy, January and Nibbles passed the king by, they were witness to a messenger having audience before the king.

“Oi. King.”, the messenger spoke. The messenger was in everyday life a simple farmer, but appointed Urgent Messenger Concerning Pressing Matters Of Our Kingdom for this special delivery; when a job needs to be done fast and options are limited, anyone will do. “’Scuse me.”, he added. The King grumbled. Belched. Snorted. Belched. And Spoke. “Whaaaaat?”, he groaned. He put in effort in that single word. Effort to make immidiately clear, with this one single word, how unwelcome the messenger was, how not interested the King was in him, and how little chance of success the messenger had in achieving anything here. The messenger carried on very much unsettled now, but with a mind to slow to already comprehend the futility of his presence and actions.
“Oi. Right. Well. You see, Your Royal … King … -ness.”, he spoke. “It’s that, our village, you see, it’s…”. A pause, and hesitation. The farmer-messenger fondled in the pocket of his jacket and a small note was revealed. He took on an imitation of the pose of someone who considers himself important and worthy of much attention (pointless for so many reasons in this event) and read out loud from the note. “Burned to the ground, pillaged, plundered, ransacked, or: consumed by the fiery wrath of the Dark Lad, if you will.”

The farmer-messenger radiated with confidence and pride. For those few seconds it lasted, he was completely convinced this dire news, spoken out oh-so-eloquently, would be the spark that lit the fire. The King would snap out of his slumber and face the threats and dangers that had descended upon his realm. He would order soldiers to march out, soldiers accompanied and directed by the best of generals and military strategists. His armies would soon meet the foes that destroyed the farmer’s village and fight a great battle and liberate the village, restoring peace and order, and, eventually, restoring the village to it’s originally state, rebuilding it; better than before even! Not often before has someone radiated with such an abundance of completely misplaced confidence and pride.

Description
There lay the king. His royal highness. Golden crown, emeralds in it even. Dark-red mantle, richly textured, yet drooping down the stairs like drool from the lips of a mentally challenged. He lay, sprawled out, lazily, carelessly on the final few steps of the wide white marble stairway that lead up to the castle entrance. Drunk. Without a shadow of a doubt, absolutely smashed.

He had a fatty, swollen, sweat-covered face, this king. And way to much skin for a man as puny as him (as likewise, there was way too much dark-red mantle for a king as puny as this king). He looked aged. Not old, but very-aged. And drunk. His gaze was set upon things beyond the edges of this world. Eyes that slightly missed every object when trying to look at it, but might seem focused exactly at some specific object while trying to look elsewhere or nowhere.

When Tommy, January and Nibbles passed the king by, they were witness to a messenger having audience before the king.

“Oi. King.”, the messenger spoke. The messenger was in everyday life a simple farmer, but appointed Urgent Messenger Concerning Pressing Matters Of Our Kingdom for this special delivery; when a job needs to be done fast and options are limited, anyone will do. “’Scuse me.”, he added. The King grumbled. Belched. Snorted. Belched. And Spoke. “Whaaaaat?”, he groaned. He put in effort in that single word. Effort to make immidiately clear, with this one single word, how unwelcome the messenger was, how not interested the King was in him, and how little chance of success the messenger had in achieving anything here. The messenger carried on very much unsettled now, but with a mind to slow to already comprehend the futility of his presence and actions.
“Oi. Right. Well. You see, Your Royal … King … -ness.”, he spoke. “It’s that, our village, you see, it’s…”. A pause, and hesitation. The farmer-messenger fondled in the pocket of his jacket and a small note was revealed. He took on an imitation of the pose of someone who considers himself important and worthy of much attention (pointless for so many reasons in this event) and read out loud from the note. “Burned to the ground, pillaged, plundered, ransacked, or: consumed by the fiery wrath of the Dark Lad, if you will.”

The farmer-messenger radiated with confidence and pride. For those few seconds it lasted, he was completely convinced this dire news, spoken out oh-so-eloquently, would be the spark that lit the fire. The King would snap out of his slumber and face the threats and dangers that had descended upon his realm. He would order soldiers to march out, soldiers accompanied and directed by the best of generals and military strategists. His armies would soon meet the foes that destroyed the farmer’s village and fight a great battle and liberate the village, restoring peace and order, and, eventually, restoring the village to it’s originally state, rebuilding it; better than before even! Not often before has someone radiated with such an abundance of completely misplaced confidence and pride.