Since in my last blog you guys basically went all 'BLARGH WRITE A NOVEL OR WE'LL EAT YOU' I have decided to comply with your demands.

Enter, four thousand words, stage left. The beginnings of some form of longer literary work. I hope you enjoy.

This is a rough draft, work in progress, unfinished piece, and otherwise early rendition. In other words, tell me whether you liked it, and what you think needs work.

*Note - to anyone whom I showed the first draft of the first chapter to, there's more than just that. So read away! That means you, Kilin, marbs, and ferret

"It is the first duty of any ruler to ensure his own comfort. The lifestyle of common man is of no consequence to him, thusly it is of prime importance that I can't read this stupid book aloud anymore!" He tossed the leather-bound volume aside dejectedly, and sulked.

"Who wrote that? It's outdated, and… and… wrong! That's not how it works at all!" And it really wasn't. In his opinion, real kings didn't get to spend time picking flowers, or randomly taking year-long trips to the far-east mountains of Hurr like his cousin did. In his experience a real king never had any free time, not without a rather large amount of planning, and the temporary appointment of several trustworthy people to positions of oversight to keep things running smoothly.

"Your highness, it isn't about the book at all, its about your language skills. Your oration, sir, and this is the most difficult book we have. Royalty ought to be able to properly pronounce the word 'consequences'!"

"Jared?'

"Yes, your highness?"

"You've been with me since the war three years, and have saved my life on at least two occasions since then. You know me better than any man has the right to know. You know my every move, you anticipate my every need. So, why is it that when we are alone, you still can't you call me by my name? And don't try to use the honorific. I can tell, you know."

Jared sighed. "Yes, King. And the 'h' is in 'honorific' is silent. You're getting better at your speaking skills, though. Shall we continue the reading?"

—

It was a conversation that they had had many times. Jared was, after all, the official Cleric to the King, and being a cleric he was quite the stickler to tradition. The aptly named King John King, on the other hand, was not.

The name had its origins in King's great-grandfather, one Lawrence King, previously Lawrence Broderick. He was a brilliant general with a slight relation to the then ruler, aspirations to the throne, and a rather large lack of subtlety. It wasn't until seventy-six years and three generations later that a member of his line claimed the throne, and purely by accident.

That had only occurred as the result of a rather nasty civil war, which had ended with the elimination of nearly the entire royal family, with only two members surviving. Hershel Broderick, the well-known son of the late King Lars Broderick and thus first in line, and John King the great-grandson of Lawrence, two-hundred-and-eighth in succession to the throne and thus about as obscure as royalty can get. Herschel lived because he was a coward, and ran away during the war, whereas John weathered the war due to the simple fact that nobody knew he existed until after the fact. Everybody else was quite dead.

In the end, the country was split into two parts, with Prince Herschel acquiring the larger half of the kingdom (gloatingly so, in fact, as it was twice the area as the other half). His opposite, on the other hand, was de facto placed in control of a much smaller area, in the mountains. Herschel was very happy with this outcome, and quite willing to let his distant cousin inherit the silly little family crown and crest in return. John, on the other hand, was in fact rather miffed because he had wanted nothing to do with the war or with being king, and had up until then had been a blacksmith, and a very good one at that.

It wasn't until a few weeks later that Herschel read the bylaws of succession and discovered that the crown was a requirement for actually being named as King. Faced with the harsh future of instead forever remaining a Prince, he was understandably quite angry about it. Royally pissed, one might say, and it didn't help that he eventually also realized that he'd given away all of the productive mines and verdant valleys, which were now all on his distant cousin's side of the border. Herschel never was very good with maps.

Jared sighed, and with good reason, as he went and started making preparations. Cousin Herschel was coming for a visit.

—

"So how were the Mountains of Hurr? I hear that they're lovely this time of year."

Prince Herschel looked up from his drink. He'd been staring at his reflection, trying to figure out how he could possibly fit inside such a tiny space, and why his buttons appeared to be on the wrong side. He had never really mastered an understanding of mirrors.

"What? Oh, boring as usual. I go there every summer. The gods really ought to remodel them once in a while. You know, change things up, make it a little interesting. Is it really too much to ask of them?" He looked up, eyes meeting with King's, and quickly glared back down at his drink, trying to catch his reflection looking away before it had a chance to mimic his gaze.

Herschel had a low opinion of the gods, of everyone except himself, really. A really really low opinion, as it were.

"Say, Joe, would you mind drinking a bit of this rather odd blue liquid? It's perfectly harmless, I swear on my mother's grave"

A slight muttering emerged from the man sitting to his left as he - the man, that is - proffered the bottle. Herschel took great pride in taking the term "right hand man" literally, but that trouble earlier with his reflection had confused him slightly. "Yes of course I know my mother isn't really dead! It's poison, you idiot!" He hissed at his crony quite loudly, enough for everyone in the room to hear. He had never mastered volume, either.

"Sorry, m'lord"

King cooly took this time to take a sip of his wine, poison-free of course. In addition to mirrors and volume, names were another of Herschel's weaknesses. "So how is your mother? Did she get that gift-basket I sent her last week?"

"Oh, very well, she's doing very well. Say, are you absolutely sure you don't want some of this… stuff?" He had his man give the bottle of blue liquid a little shake. "I hear it's absolutely delicious!"

"Heard it from who, exactly?"

"Why, from some dead people I suppose." His henchman put the bottle away, safely nestled in his cloak. "If you ever change your mind…"

There were several very good reasons why treaties and talks with Herschel never got very far. Nine times out of ten, it involved some form of half-hearted assassination attempt. It was going to be a long evening.

"Cup!" The Prince's manservant obligingly raised some wine to his lips, which rapidly began to disappear. Herschel had decided that he'd try to drink his reflection - it was too confusing, and this much thinking was giving him a headache. Besides, images of him ought to be larger than that.

—

Off in a meadow quite some distance away, a god was picking daisies and being very careful not to crush them with his rather large hammer. His name was Sthrullgard, better known as the dwarven Hammergod, God of Justice, God of Percussive Instruments, and for some unknown reason, God of Flowering Plants. The elves had understandably suffered some turmoil when they found this out, having previously assumed that all elven gods were, well… elven.

Sthrullgard liked to spend his afternoons alone, in the quiet. Most of his duties were rather loud, as they usually involved lots of banging, yelling, and sometimes screaming - and that was just the bit with percussive instruments. And so it was that he came to relish the bit about being a part-time nature deity. Many of the other gods sometimes poked fun at him a bit for this, because it meant he had to deal with the somewhat condescending elves, but he could put up with their taunts. After all, he had to put up with the elves, didn't he? A bit of time to himself was worth it, as gods don't always get time to themselves.

In this sense, that was true even now, because Sthrullgard not as alone as he'd thought he was.

It is a very rare thing for a god to be spied upon. Gods do it all the time to each other, but they are gods, after all. For a mortal, it is something that takes skill, patience, and a great deal of luck, as gods do not let down their guard very easily. There is also the slight problem of overcoming the fear of what happens should one be caught doing this spying. Nobody quite knows what would happen, and that was usually enough to put most people off the idea of even trying. That is to say, however, that it is not impossible. The first of the two difficulties can be overcome by the application of training, or lots of money. The second can be overcome by simply being too full of yourself to imagine that you might fail.

Someone was watching Sthrullgard, and he noticed this fact when that someone called out his name.

"Sthrullgard"

A sigh came out in a huff, and this is the sigh of a God. Very huffy, indeed. This was the first chance he'd got to spend some time picking flowers - he'd spent all week tending to that nasty business that went down in Queeg. Lots of justice had needed handing out, and not so much percussive instruments. At least this meant that there were a few spare drums, and he needn't make so many for next week. Meanwhile, he needed to see to whoever had interrupted his flowers. Turning, Sthrullgard stood up and dusted off his pant-legs, fixing himself and getting ready to give whoever it was a very steely gaze of irritation and annoyance.

He was quite surprised to see that there was no one there. Somebody had called his name, but there was no one to be found. He looked around, confused. Maybe he was imagining things. He rubbed his eyes in the sunlight, a puzzled look on his face.

He was even more surprised when somebody suddenly stabbed him in the back.

"Oh bugger!"

—

It is a matter of fact that gods cannot be killed. Many have tried, and all ended with the same outcome - it simply cannot be done. The gods cannot be killed, destroyed erased, or removed from existence. They can, however, be made mortal.

Sthrullgard was experiencing this first hand and did not like it at all. "Blasted knife! A thousand years since the blasted thing t'were last seen, a thousand years since the blasted thing t'were supposedly destroyed, stupid Godslayer innit even an' accurate name, blasted knife oh hell thud garble"

Sthrullgard interrupted his rant to consider his current position. That is, the position of having just tripped over a tree branch and then fallen into a mud puddle. He rolled over and then sat up, his beard full of muck. As a god, he usually didn't have to worry about things like getting dirty. Even if he had, he could have simply wished it away, but that obviously didn't work anymore. How did mortals go around getting clean? He got up and resolved to find a river or some other body of water, randomly picked a direction, and marched off resuming his rant.

"Blasted knife right inna back supposed to be destroyed an' I don't even know where the blast I am argh thud"

Gods also usually don't have to worry about tripping over things, either. He was experiencing some difficulty in adjusting, and it was going to be a long day.

The afternoon had started badly, and had only gone downhill from there - literally. King had had guards sent to escort Herschel down the mountain. Ostensibly it was for Herschel's 'safety' which was in a sense true, but not for any reason of protection from bandits and falling rocks. Rather, doing so ensured that he, King, did not strangle his cousin and end up causing a major diplomatic incident. He had a very strict rule about regicide, and it was pretty much 'no regicide', even though in this case the world would have cheered him on, would have probably helped him hide the body, and would possibly have even given him an alibi as well, had he needed it. He thought back to the point at which he knew the meeting had gone sour.

"What, allow my peasants to do what? You must be joking! Hah! Get it? Joe King? Because that's your name?

Jared had kindly whispered in his ear, "I think he's trying to make a pun, sir. He's forgotten that it's John, sir." It wasn't necessary, but he knew that Jared's redundant relaying of what was said sometimes served to distance himself from his gut reaction. In this case, it hadn't helped, and that had been the end of any illusion of cordial discussion.

Returning his thoughts to the present, King slouched at his desk. He slathered a stolen scone with some butter and raspberry jam. He'd snuck it out in his pocket, knowing that Jared would object if he saw, citing concerns about royal digestion, and the unhealthy effects of late-night snacking. Munching on the pastry, he knew that he'd never stoop as far as to trying to have his cousin killed, even if Herschel never could remember his name.

As it turns out, Herschel had no such similar compunctions on the subject of regicide, and was more than willing to follow that moral void.

"I hope you enjoy that scone, because 'scone to be your last."

King turned in his chair and saw that behind him there now stood a man with a very fancy and familiar sword. The manner in which he held it suggested that he wasn't at all there as Regional Sword Inspector.

"Excuse me?"

"It appears that survival just isn't your… bread and butter!"

"What?"

"Its been knife knowing you!"

King blinked.

"I said, you're in quite a jam!"

"Erm. Isn't that my sword?"

"Oh by the dark, really, is that all you have to say? 'Isn't that my sword' is your response to mortal danger? Someone is threatening you, and 'Erm' is the best you can do?"

"Honestly, yes."

"Well, don't you have anything that you want to add before you die?"

"Um. Good luck, I suppose?"

With that, the assassin lunged forward with a shriek. The sword sliced down at King's neck, drama (and wind) whistling at its tip, until finally at the end of its path, one of the two was dead.

—

Prince Herschel sighed. His stomach hurt - either he'd had too much wine, or his reflection was trying to escape. He couldn't tell which. He was also running out of ways to describe is subordinate, as he'd used up all of the good ones in his meeting with King.

"M'lord, you could always call me Michael"

"Oh shut up. That isn't even your name! Your name is Gerald!"

"But I like Michael, m'lord. It rolls off the tongue quite nicely, not like Gerald. I don't know why my mum named me that."

"Last week, you told me that you wanted to be called Frank. The week before that, you wanted to be called Pascal. The week before that, it was Duke Herefordshire the Third! If you keep this up, I will call you Idiot, and that will be the end of it!"

"Sorry, m'lord. I just can't seem to make up my mind."

Herschel sighed again. It was just one of those days. Back to the matter at hand. "Is it done?"

"Well, sort of, m'lord"

"Sort of? What do you mean sort of?!"

"Well, m'lord, we got our inside the castle without a hitch. Hopped right out of the fake horse when it got to the stable. He was able to sneak into King's private chambers without any trouble either, m'lord. He stuck to the plan, grabbed the royal sword from the weapon case, made a snarky one-liner, and attempted to decapitate King."

"Attempted?"

"Yes m'lord. Unfortunately, he grabbed the wrong weapon, sir. What he grabbed was a ceremonial sword. Fancy, but otherwise unremarkable."

"Ceremonial? About as sharp as a butterknife, and about as deadly! What happened to the royal weapon? Why wasn't it in the sword rack!?"

"Bjormir isn't kept in the sword case, m'lord. Bjormir isn't even a sword, m'lord."

"Then what is it?"

"Apparently, it's a butterknife. A very sharp butterknife, m'lord"

—-

King rubbed his neck where the ceremonial blade had struck. The thing had bounced right off, of course, but it still hurt.

"Jared, have one of the maids to come down with soap and a bucket. There' are bloodstains on the carpet, and I want to get it out before it sets."

He looked down at the tiny blade in his hand, wiping off the butter and blood, making a note to clean it properly before he had breakfast in the morning.

It had a name. Bjormir. Supposedly, it was blessed by the gods, and had been sharpened for twenty years until it was so keen that it could split the anvil it was forged on. He had always felt that that story made a little sense to him because you can't sharpen a sword for that long without ending with something much smaller than you'd originally started with. It had been in the royal family for centuries, and nobody quite knew where it came from.

He'd inherited it with the crown, of course. The two were a set.

Unfortunately, because of its diminutive size, it really wasn't useful for much other than well-sealed letters and the occasional buttered breakfast pastry, and wasn't at all for suited for actual swordfighting. All in all, it wasn't even much to look at, and so some long-ago ancestor had commissioned a faux sword to hang in the weapons case instead, because it was quite difficult to impress someone with something that you'd just opened the mail with.

Jared was rubbing some sort of ointment on his neck, where the sword had struck. Supposedly it was to help prevent bruising, but King had a faint idea that it didn't actually work and instead just kept people from getting too close to notice, judging from the way it made his eyes water.

"Did anybody happen to catch what it was that he said before he died?"

"I think it was something along the lines of 'Argh!' or 'Ouch!', your highness. Perhaps it was 'Argh ouch argh ouch'"

"Oh." King looked crestfallen. "Are you sure he didn't say something along the lines of 'You'll never find out who sent me!' or 'I'll come for you, even in death!' Something dramatic like that, or witty perhaps?"

"Sorry, your highness"

"Oh. He really seemed the type to do that sort of thing."

Of course, the assassin really was that sort of person, and he did say something. What it was he said, was this:

"You're a lot sharp-er than you look, and I think I got your point!"

As it were, it was just too faint for anyone to hear it, which was fine because it really wasn't that great of a joke anyway.

—

Prince Herschel laid on his bed, quivering and squeaking with rage.

"I can't understand you, m'lord!"

It wasn't his fault, really. Whenever the royal Prince was sent into a royal rage (which was quite often, as it were), he also became royally unable to talk, instead sounding like someone who has repeatedly trodden on a large rubber duck.

Gerald tried to look as apologetic as one can while being quacked at.

"M'lord, I can't do you want, because I don't know what you are saying!"

Herschel squeaked impotently.

"M'lord, if its all right, I will now go and fetch the tea."

Herschel squeaked.

"I'll take that as a yes, m'lord"

It was, of course, a self-reinforcing spiral. Being angry made the Prince unable to speak, and being unable to order others around made him more mad. It usually ended with him vibrating silently, exploding into a furious tantrum, and then finally collapsing on his mattress, spent. It was only after that and a bit of soothing tea that he was usually able to speak once more.

Gerald returned with the tea, and some biscuits as well. He held the steaming cup up to Herschel's mouth for a few sips, and then fed him a few bites of biscuit, alternating until finally he was asked, in a low and quavering voice, "Did he at least get off a few good lines before he got stabbed in the chest by a butterknife?"

"Oh, yes, m'lord. I hear that he died in a marvelously witty way. Don't worry, m'lord, we can try again, there's always tomorrow."

Herschel nodded. "More biscuit, Gerald." Gerald obliged.

—

Quite some distance away, a cloaked figure sat very quietly in his jail cell. He wasn't attempting to be mysterious in any way, he was just cold, hungry, and miserable. This wasn't all that unusual for him, and in fact was his usual state of being, so much so that it actually brought up many happy childhood memories. Happy, that is, relatively speaking.

At the top of the continent, in the distant northern reaches, exists a small, frozen country that is known simply as 'Ayers'. The name came about quite by accident, with the blame resting partially on the shoulders of one rather unlucky dwarf, who happened to be the guide to a small caravan of displaced peasants. The incident occurred shortly before sundown when the dwarf stopped to indicate that now would be a good place for them to stop for the night.

The guide halted, gestured around at the sky, and began to say:

"Aye! Ers gonna be verreh cold an' windy tonight, 'e better set up camp 'ere"

Unfortunately, he was eaten by a bear mid-sentence, and only got the first two words out. The rest of the group, not knowing where they were or what the dwarf had really tried to say, decided to stop and settle there, calling the land 'Ayers'.

Another interesting thing about Ayers is how its citizens name their children. Specifically, it is traditional for them to name their children after where they were born. Now, this does lead to some interesting names, such as "Behind-the-Crag", or "Top-of-the-Peak", but it also leads to some mundane names as well. Being named after the midwife's house was quite common, as was being named something along the lines of "Bedroom".

The cloaked figure was not so fortunate, because his name was Dunny, and Dunny was no longer in Ayers. Also, Dunny had a cellmate.

"Hey, you has got a funny name, you know that?"

"Yes, I know"

"Didja you know that your name is another word for…"

"Yes, I know"

"And thats funny because every time someone calls your name, they call you a…"

"Yes, I know"

His cellmate, with his limited repertoire of questions exhausted, rolled back over to fall asleep.

"Hah. Dunny!"

Dunny. He winced inwardly.

—

Dunny sat and pondered. He was not in a very good position, and his situation was quite grim considering that he had been found guilty. It was a case of mistaken identity, of course, because he most certainly was not a small-time thief named Horf. He didn't even know what he had supposedly stolen, because the locals were quite stubborn on insisting that he should know exactly what he'd done, when he most assuredly did not.

His sentence, for theft, was three bears.

Bears were the standard punishment in around here. The practice had originally come about due to a small oversight that had occurred one of the many times that the local Book of Law was recopied. A small slip of the pen, and criminal sentences were no longer measured in lengths of time, but were instead measured as the application of a number of large angry carnivores. The practice had stood the test of time mostly because it worked - when it came to the local criminal court, there weren't that many repeat offenders.

In fact, three bears was really quite lenient, all things considered, because it could have been much worse - the maximum sentence for theft was 14 bears.

—

It was about this time that Sthrullgard reached his destination. Well, almost. Now, all he had to do was get inside of a castle. A mortal he may now be, but even in his reduced state it ought to be no problem. The portcullis was down, and the drawbridge was up, but maybe if he got a running start, he could just about… He took a few steps back, sprinted forwards…

And then tripped on a root. Sthrullgard had still not gotten the hang of being mortal.

"Oh bugger."

He fell into the moat.

"Splash glub glub".