The executioner looked around the room, his hand going up to unconsciously smooth his matted hair. He licked his lips. “High?”
“Are you sure?”
One of the counselors, a large, portly man who was already sweating profusely, collapsed.
“Yeth,” said the executioner, slowly and carefully.
“Good choice!”
Everyone suddenly relaxed. The guards let their spears waver, as the counselors quickly found chairs and the serving maids fanned themselves with their platters.
“Torture it is, then!” Arcklebar announced.
Six more counselors, three guards, and a page all promptly fainted.
One guard near a door started slowly edging out. “Ah ah ah!” shouted Arklebar, pointing at him. “That’ll be extra torture for you!”
The guard said a bad word, but returned to his post.
“My lorth?”
“Yes?”
“We have no thorthuror. You had me ethecuthe him lasth weeth bethause his spithes weren’th sharp enough.”
“And we don’t have a new one? Didn’t someone put a posting on the job board?”
“Ith has yeth to be filleth, my lorth.”
Arklebar took a deep breath, sucking it through his teeth. He looked around the room, pointing and muttering to himself. “Sixty-four,” he finally said. “That’s a lot for me to do personally.”
“Yes, lorth.”
“I mean, I’d have to totally rearrange my schedule. I’d probably have to work late and I’ve got to go to the orphanage’s yearly play, which frankly, is going to suck. It’s just a bad week for that much torturing.” Arklebar tapped his helm. “I suppose you’ll all have to consider yourselves tortured.”
There was a chorus of ‘aye’s’ and ‘yes, lords.’
Arklebar dismissed the assertions with a wave. “Yes, yes. I am most merciful. Except,” he said, his gaze going to his counselors. “For you lot. I can’t,” he continued. “Have advisors that faint and sweat at the mere thought of a bit of execution or torture! I want you all to be able to run four laps around the castle quickly and without pause in two month’s time. If you fail, well, let’s say there will be another posting on the job board.”
Arklebar rose, his cape swirling around him as the spikes on his armor gleamed in the ruddy lantern light. “Salads, gentlemen,” he said as he strode out of the hall. “I suggest a lot of salad.”
Cheers,
-Jason
Showing posts with label Arklebar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Arklebar. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Salad!: Part 1
Arklebar, Dark Lord of Berenir, King of Uburia, and Conqueror of Kordrun drummed his fingers on the armrest. Arrayed before him were his counselors, twenty in all, each with a heavy gold chain about his neck.
The overlord shifted in his seat, the spikes of his armor scraping loudly against the stone. The noise did nothing to alleviate the argument going on before him, as his counselors argued about some new tax or something. He’d lost the thread awhile ago and his helmet was starting to pinch. The golden dragon atop his helm certainly looked cool, but weighed a ton.
“Enough!” he finally roared, scaring everyone in the room. All eyes whirled to him as mouths froze and fingers paused mid-point. There was a good three seconds of absolute silence, broken only by a serving girl dropping a spoon. It rang loudly on the stone floor and she promptly fainted. Arklebar ignored her.
“Executioner!” he said, his voice echoing through the hall.
A burly man in a greasy leather apron and matching hood hurried up to Arklebar’s right hand.
“My lorth?”
“What?”
“My lorth?” he repeated.
Arklebar reached over and yanked the hood off. The man had sweaty, black hair, a thin, scraggly beard, and was missing a lot of teeth.
“What happened to your teeth?”
The man bowed low. “You hith me in the mouth last month, my lorth. “ He bowed even lower. “It wath a moth mighthy blow, thire.”
“Huh.” Arklebar shrugged. “Don’t recall. Anyway,” he continued. “Kill everyone in here!”
Three counselors, two guards, a serving wench, a herald, and the court jester fainted.
“Everyone, my lorth?” asked the executioner.
“That’s what I sa-“ Arklebar paused. “Well, obviously not me!”
“Myselth as well, my lorth?”
Arklebar considered that. “Can you execute yourself?”
“I will thry to finth a way, lorth.”
“Hmmmmmm . . . no. But I want a detailed diagram of how you’d execute yourself. Just in case I need it later.”
“Of courth, my lorth. Ith there anyone elth to be sparrth?”
Arklebar steepled his fingers and scanned the room. Everyone was pale, there were a few tears, and one of the pages seemed to have wet himself. “I’m feeling generous,” he finally announced. There was a massive sigh from the throng that caused the tapestries to shift and the candles to waver. “High or low?” he asked the executioner. Three more people wet themselves.
Tomorrow: Part 2
The overlord shifted in his seat, the spikes of his armor scraping loudly against the stone. The noise did nothing to alleviate the argument going on before him, as his counselors argued about some new tax or something. He’d lost the thread awhile ago and his helmet was starting to pinch. The golden dragon atop his helm certainly looked cool, but weighed a ton.
“Enough!” he finally roared, scaring everyone in the room. All eyes whirled to him as mouths froze and fingers paused mid-point. There was a good three seconds of absolute silence, broken only by a serving girl dropping a spoon. It rang loudly on the stone floor and she promptly fainted. Arklebar ignored her.
“Executioner!” he said, his voice echoing through the hall.
A burly man in a greasy leather apron and matching hood hurried up to Arklebar’s right hand.
“My lorth?”
“What?”
“My lorth?” he repeated.
Arklebar reached over and yanked the hood off. The man had sweaty, black hair, a thin, scraggly beard, and was missing a lot of teeth.
“What happened to your teeth?”
The man bowed low. “You hith me in the mouth last month, my lorth. “ He bowed even lower. “It wath a moth mighthy blow, thire.”
“Huh.” Arklebar shrugged. “Don’t recall. Anyway,” he continued. “Kill everyone in here!”
Three counselors, two guards, a serving wench, a herald, and the court jester fainted.
“Everyone, my lorth?” asked the executioner.
“That’s what I sa-“ Arklebar paused. “Well, obviously not me!”
“Myselth as well, my lorth?”
Arklebar considered that. “Can you execute yourself?”
“I will thry to finth a way, lorth.”
“Hmmmmmm . . . no. But I want a detailed diagram of how you’d execute yourself. Just in case I need it later.”
“Of courth, my lorth. Ith there anyone elth to be sparrth?”
Arklebar steepled his fingers and scanned the room. Everyone was pale, there were a few tears, and one of the pages seemed to have wet himself. “I’m feeling generous,” he finally announced. There was a massive sigh from the throng that caused the tapestries to shift and the candles to waver. “High or low?” he asked the executioner. Three more people wet themselves.
Tomorrow: Part 2
Friday, April 4, 2008
Last Words: Part 2
“Dad got mad at me one day and threw Poofy in the lake. I was, of course, heartbroken and ran to my mother, but she just looked at me funny and said ‘Rocks can’t drown.’”
“I eventually got another dog. A real, proper dog. At least, I thought he was.” Arklebar shrugged. “I didn’t find out dogs normally had four legs ‘till I was thirteen. He also foamed at the mouth and walked into trees. In retrospect, he was probably rabid, so I can understand why he ‘disappeared.’” Arklebar made ‘quote marks’ with his hands. “That was the best New Year’s dinner ever.”
Bryl stared at his enemy. “Are you completely, barking mad?”
“Hmmmm . . . maybe,” the defeated king said, after a moment’s reflection. “Eventually, I noticed girls. There was one, her name was-“
“Hold it!” Bryl advanced, his sword point moving to within inches of Arklebar’s throat. “I don’t have time for anymore stupid stories! You die! Now!”
Arklebar pushed the tip of the sword away. “Wait a minute! You said ‘last words!’ Not ‘last word’ or ‘last paragraph’ or ‘kindly sum up your existence in a haiku!’ You practically demanded my last words and now you’re getting them! Besides, you’re supposed to be the good guy! What will all the other good guys think down at the good guy tavern if you went and offed me mid-soliloquy?”
The sword wavered. “Well, just hurry it up. Skip to the end or something.”
Arklebar took a deep breath. “Let’s see,” he began. “Girls, school, more girls, arson, petty theft, robbery, a brief stint at Madame Via’s School of Dance- to meet girls,“ he said pointedly. “Moving up to thuggery, murder, and eventual domination of the kingdom of Uburia.”
“Done?” Bryl said.
“Almost. I haven’t gotten around to the bit where I invested heavily in magical healing.”
“Ah, then- wait, what?”
Arklebar smiled. “It’s called Ginormous Heal!”
A dazzling white light enveloped Arklebar. The young Lord Faringdoyle staggered backwards, his hands going up to shield his eyes. By the time they cleared, Arklebar already had his helmet back on and was picking up his sword.
“I believe,” he said calmly. “It’s your turn for last words.”
The young hero stared. “Catnuts!”
Arklebar considered that. “I liked mine better,” he said and then advanced.
Cheers,
-Jason
“I eventually got another dog. A real, proper dog. At least, I thought he was.” Arklebar shrugged. “I didn’t find out dogs normally had four legs ‘till I was thirteen. He also foamed at the mouth and walked into trees. In retrospect, he was probably rabid, so I can understand why he ‘disappeared.’” Arklebar made ‘quote marks’ with his hands. “That was the best New Year’s dinner ever.”
Bryl stared at his enemy. “Are you completely, barking mad?”
“Hmmmm . . . maybe,” the defeated king said, after a moment’s reflection. “Eventually, I noticed girls. There was one, her name was-“
“Hold it!” Bryl advanced, his sword point moving to within inches of Arklebar’s throat. “I don’t have time for anymore stupid stories! You die! Now!”
Arklebar pushed the tip of the sword away. “Wait a minute! You said ‘last words!’ Not ‘last word’ or ‘last paragraph’ or ‘kindly sum up your existence in a haiku!’ You practically demanded my last words and now you’re getting them! Besides, you’re supposed to be the good guy! What will all the other good guys think down at the good guy tavern if you went and offed me mid-soliloquy?”
The sword wavered. “Well, just hurry it up. Skip to the end or something.”
Arklebar took a deep breath. “Let’s see,” he began. “Girls, school, more girls, arson, petty theft, robbery, a brief stint at Madame Via’s School of Dance- to meet girls,“ he said pointedly. “Moving up to thuggery, murder, and eventual domination of the kingdom of Uburia.”
“Done?” Bryl said.
“Almost. I haven’t gotten around to the bit where I invested heavily in magical healing.”
“Ah, then- wait, what?”
Arklebar smiled. “It’s called Ginormous Heal!”
A dazzling white light enveloped Arklebar. The young Lord Faringdoyle staggered backwards, his hands going up to shield his eyes. By the time they cleared, Arklebar already had his helmet back on and was picking up his sword.
“I believe,” he said calmly. “It’s your turn for last words.”
The young hero stared. “Catnuts!”
Arklebar considered that. “I liked mine better,” he said and then advanced.
Cheers,
-Jason
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Last Words: Part 1
Arklebar, Dark Lord of Berenir, King of Uburia, and Conqueror of Kordrun staggered and fell against his throne, his shoulder spikes scraping loudly against the stone as his sword clattered to the ground.
“It’s over, Arklebar!” panted the young man. His armor was rent and bloody and his left arm hung uselessly at his side, but his sword was steady as he pointed it at his defeated foe.
Arklebar glanced around. His guards were gone and fires from siege were filling his hall with smoke. “Yeah,” he conceded, as he struggled into a sitting position. “Looks that way.”
“What? No clever threats or insults?”
“Nope.” Arklebar removed his helmet and set it beside him. “Just out of curiosity, though. Who are you?”
“Do you remember Lord Faringdoyle?”
Arklebar considered the name. “Tall guy with a wart?”
“No. My height, black beard shot with grey. Liked cats.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Well, he was my father and you murdered him!” The young man took a step forward. “I’m Bryl Faringdoyle, Heir to the Duchy of Faringdoyle!”
“Ah, the whole revenge thing. Point of interest: Did I actually kill your father or was it one of my lackeys?”
Bryl stared at his defeated foe. “What does it matter? You’re reign of terror is over! Any last words?”
Arklebar thought for a moment. “Actually, yes.” He leaned back against his throne, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “It all started when I was a kid. I had a dog named Poofy. Well, actually, he was a rock that looked like a dog, y’know, if you squinted just right. Anyhow . . .”
Later: More Last Words!
“It’s over, Arklebar!” panted the young man. His armor was rent and bloody and his left arm hung uselessly at his side, but his sword was steady as he pointed it at his defeated foe.
Arklebar glanced around. His guards were gone and fires from siege were filling his hall with smoke. “Yeah,” he conceded, as he struggled into a sitting position. “Looks that way.”
“What? No clever threats or insults?”
“Nope.” Arklebar removed his helmet and set it beside him. “Just out of curiosity, though. Who are you?”
“Do you remember Lord Faringdoyle?”
Arklebar considered the name. “Tall guy with a wart?”
“No. My height, black beard shot with grey. Liked cats.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Well, he was my father and you murdered him!” The young man took a step forward. “I’m Bryl Faringdoyle, Heir to the Duchy of Faringdoyle!”
“Ah, the whole revenge thing. Point of interest: Did I actually kill your father or was it one of my lackeys?”
Bryl stared at his defeated foe. “What does it matter? You’re reign of terror is over! Any last words?”
Arklebar thought for a moment. “Actually, yes.” He leaned back against his throne, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “It all started when I was a kid. I had a dog named Poofy. Well, actually, he was a rock that looked like a dog, y’know, if you squinted just right. Anyhow . . .”
Later: More Last Words!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Moving Up in the Ranks
Arklebar, Dark Lord of Berenir, King of Uburia, and Conqueror of Kordrun drummed his fingers on the armrest. Before him lay the royal map room, where several very nervous men in uniforms stood staring at their feet.
“So,” began Arklebar, “you’re telling me that we lost?”
“Yes, Sire,” said the man with the biggest array of medals. “As you can see from the map, enemy forces surprised us at Sandwich Pass and your entire Western Army was annihilated.” He hesitantly pointed at the large, minutely detailed map of the continent that filled two-thirds of the room. A number of carved wooden figures were set at various points, painted in the colors of various nations.
“We’re the red ones?” asked Arklebar.
“Yes, Lord,” said the same man. “The half-dozen blue figures clustered around the knocked over red figures represents the battle.”
“How come none of the blue figures are knocked over?”
“We, ummm, didn’t inflict enough casualties.”
“Really? Three thousand heavily armed psychopaths didn’t kill enough people to knock over even one blue guy?”
“Well, Sire,” began the man. “It was hobby night. They were busy making macaroni ducks when they were surprised.”
“Macaroni ducks?”
“Yes, we find it keeps morale up.”
Arklebar considered this for a moment. “Huh.” He leaned forward, the giant spikes on his shoulder plates casting ominous shadows. “You know what else keeps morale up?”
The man swallowed, as the other men quietly stepped away. “No, Lord.”
“Executions.” Arklebar signaled and a guard efficiently lopped the man’s head off. There was a fountain of blood and two thuds. The first was from a head with a very surprised expression as it hit the table and the second came a moment later as the rest of the body hit the floor.
“Well,” said Arklebar, after a moment of silence. “Who’s next in line to be General?”
No one answered.
“Come on, somebody speak up.” Arklebar raised his hand and the guard stepped forward again.
“Ummm,” said a young man, who was liberally splashed with blood. “I don’t think there’s anyone else.”
“What? I command over 50,000 men. Who’s the next senior officer?”
“I don’t think you have any left.”
Arklebar raised a finger and the guard stepped forward, but then lowered it after a moment. “Explain.”
“Well, you’ve executed every senior and junior officer you have. General Errew there,” he said gesturing at the corpse. “Was just a lieutenant 9 months ago. Your officers are actively refusing promotions now. Many have busted themselves down to sergeants. Captain Bower had himself court-martialed all the way down to Corporeal.”
“And who are you?”
“Private Kren, Lord.” He gestured at the map. “I move the figures and . . . err . . . clean up.”
“Hmmm, I like you, Private. How’d you like to be General?”
“No thank you, Sire.”
“Come on! You get all sorts of perks. There’re fancy uniforms, good pay, and lots of medals.” Arklebar leaned forward. “The ladies love the medals, if you get my drift.”
“I will, but I have some conditions.”
“Really? Such as?”
“Not being executed would be pretty much it.” He thought for a second. “And no sneaky ‘toss him down a well when no one’s looking’ either.”
Arklebar rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
“I’d like that in writing.”
“Fine.”
“In front of witnesses.”
“Oh come on!”
“And notarized.”
“You’re killing me here,” said Arklebar. “Really.”
Cheers,
-Jason
“So,” began Arklebar, “you’re telling me that we lost?”
“Yes, Sire,” said the man with the biggest array of medals. “As you can see from the map, enemy forces surprised us at Sandwich Pass and your entire Western Army was annihilated.” He hesitantly pointed at the large, minutely detailed map of the continent that filled two-thirds of the room. A number of carved wooden figures were set at various points, painted in the colors of various nations.
“We’re the red ones?” asked Arklebar.
“Yes, Lord,” said the same man. “The half-dozen blue figures clustered around the knocked over red figures represents the battle.”
“How come none of the blue figures are knocked over?”
“We, ummm, didn’t inflict enough casualties.”
“Really? Three thousand heavily armed psychopaths didn’t kill enough people to knock over even one blue guy?”
“Well, Sire,” began the man. “It was hobby night. They were busy making macaroni ducks when they were surprised.”
“Macaroni ducks?”
“Yes, we find it keeps morale up.”
Arklebar considered this for a moment. “Huh.” He leaned forward, the giant spikes on his shoulder plates casting ominous shadows. “You know what else keeps morale up?”
The man swallowed, as the other men quietly stepped away. “No, Lord.”
“Executions.” Arklebar signaled and a guard efficiently lopped the man’s head off. There was a fountain of blood and two thuds. The first was from a head with a very surprised expression as it hit the table and the second came a moment later as the rest of the body hit the floor.
“Well,” said Arklebar, after a moment of silence. “Who’s next in line to be General?”
No one answered.
“Come on, somebody speak up.” Arklebar raised his hand and the guard stepped forward again.
“Ummm,” said a young man, who was liberally splashed with blood. “I don’t think there’s anyone else.”
“What? I command over 50,000 men. Who’s the next senior officer?”
“I don’t think you have any left.”
Arklebar raised a finger and the guard stepped forward, but then lowered it after a moment. “Explain.”
“Well, you’ve executed every senior and junior officer you have. General Errew there,” he said gesturing at the corpse. “Was just a lieutenant 9 months ago. Your officers are actively refusing promotions now. Many have busted themselves down to sergeants. Captain Bower had himself court-martialed all the way down to Corporeal.”
“And who are you?”
“Private Kren, Lord.” He gestured at the map. “I move the figures and . . . err . . . clean up.”
“Hmmm, I like you, Private. How’d you like to be General?”
“No thank you, Sire.”
“Come on! You get all sorts of perks. There’re fancy uniforms, good pay, and lots of medals.” Arklebar leaned forward. “The ladies love the medals, if you get my drift.”
“I will, but I have some conditions.”
“Really? Such as?”
“Not being executed would be pretty much it.” He thought for a second. “And no sneaky ‘toss him down a well when no one’s looking’ either.”
Arklebar rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
“I’d like that in writing.”
“Fine.”
“In front of witnesses.”
“Oh come on!”
“And notarized.”
“You’re killing me here,” said Arklebar. “Really.”
Cheers,
-Jason
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
