“Watch it Hornsby! That’s my favorite breastplate you’re denting!”
The small man in front of the dais bent down slightly to pick up the fallen armor and almost dropped it right back down to the floor. He finally got a hold of his charge and waddled over to the royal blacksmith, who chuckled in a corner of the throne room.
“See Hornsby, you can barely carry it! And now Gouter has to fix it. You think he works for free?”
“Well, you are the king, sir, I am sure as one of your loyal-“
“You are a total idiot Hornsby. Blacksmiths have no loyalty to the crown.”
A cough from the corner, and then the steady tap-tap-tap of hammer on steel.
“Sir that strap always breaks while I am trying to gird you for battle. Are you sure-“
“Yes, I am sure I do not need a new set. This armour came from the body of Strietch Lineheart! A better set cannot be found in the world.”
“Well, yes, sir, but, you see, Strietch was a notoriously thin man, and, well-“
“Are you trying to call me fat, Hornsby!”
“Of course not sir! I am just trying to explain why the straps are feeling a little extra strain, is all. It is hard for a man of my size to keep the plate up when-“
“Oh, forget you and your excuses, Hornsby. Go find my son. He can get this plate on. And get me a flagon of wine. Try not to spill it this time.”
“Yes sir. Your son may take awhile to find your majesty, last I heard he was shacking up with a whore-“
“I said get me some wine Hornsby!”
Hornsby scuttled out of the throne room, thankful no one could find the king’s sword.
Starla Parabola is an urchin. We have no idea how she managed to submit this, but we’re publishing it anyway.