Act I Scene 1.
Setting: The Mountainhomes.
“He’s here, your majesty.”
“Good, send him in.”
“Right away, your majesty.”
A gaunt dwarf enters the Queen’s chamber. He has a perfectly trimmed beard and clean fingernails. The Queen has never seen clean fingernails before. She quietly wonders what is wrong with his hands.
“The project was going so well, Graebeard, this whole ordeal is such a disappointment” she says, determinately not staring at his hands.
“Tell me about it” he says with a look of bland detachment, “my plans clearly said that all the walls were to be made of slate. I don’t know where that idiot Morul thinks he can get off using shale right in the middle of my…”
“Graebeard, this isn’t about the shale. This is about you and Morul.”
“Well, it’s his fault. First he ruins my perfect design, then he goes and gets his sticky brains all over my lovely pick and my nearly complete project. I’ve washed my pick 5 times already and it’s still not clean.” His left cheek tremors almost imperceptibly.
“We have a problem, Graebeard.”
“I know, I just said that…”
“No. You’re the problem. The hammerer is chomping at the bit to get his hands on you.”
“Well, he’ll obviously have to wash his hands first.”
The Queen sighs. “You’re lucky your uncle is so well placed. If it weren’t for his influence you’d already be just another grease stain on the executioner’s floor. As it is, you’re going to have to settle for exile.”
“Exile? Like, out in the dirt? No, no, no n…”
“Look, Graebeard, you’re sick. I know that. I also know that you put a pick through a mason’s head because he used the wrong gray stone. You can’t stay here. If you do either one of Morul’s family is going to get you, or this whole mess is going to happen again.”
“A mess?”
“That’s right. Now. You can go. But you can’t come back. Also… we, um. There are some people accompanying you.”
“Why? If you don’t want me here I won’t return. You don’t need some dirty thug to watch over me while…”
“No, that’s not it. They, uhhh, I think you’ll all get along. You’re all, um, well, you are all very particular. About things. I’m sure you’ll all be very happy together. Unless you kill one another…”
“Well, it seems I have no choice, then. That’s fine. This place is a mess anyway. Dirt everywhere, stone piled indiscriminately around the…”
“Yes, well, good talk. Goodbye, Graebeard. I hope things, um, work out for all of you.”
The queen glances meaningfully at her guard, who quickly escorts the captive to his wagon and the other waiting exiles.
Fivex: You're up for year 3. You can certainly take another turn later as well.
bcd1024: You're up for year 4.
lolghurt: lye and potash are filthy, so I can see your point.
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Topic: Whiskeybridle: An OCD Succession Fortress, so crazy it just might work! (Read 17397 times)