Monday, November 12, 2012

Day Three-Twenty-Six: It has worked so well in the past

"Diplomacy, sir. Diplomacy."

Those three words stuck out more in the reply letter than any other, the reply that came so quickly that I'm not even sure I had time to send out my message before it arrived. "Diplomacy, sir. Diplomacy."


Let's recap before I get into the particulars, diary. Last week I fretted over my father, who, no surprise, was terrorizing everyone in Pubton. My constituents asked for help, I attempted to deliver. I failed, and my father humiliated me in front of the entire village. No surprise there.

What DID surprise me was the introduction of some dude named Hoban. A servant to a mysterious Lord Pagan, Hoban informed us all that we'd built our village on private property. Time to vamoose. My father took exception to that, slyly complimenting the former targets of his bullying (aka THE WHOLE VILLAGE) as he tossed scruffy bugger Hoban out of Pubton. 

Now everybody respects my dad. There's still fear, but there's respect. They aren't calling for his expulsion anymore. I wonder if he was waiting for just such an occasion to present itself, and enjoying his freedom to bully while it lasted.

But there's one thing he can't bring to the table. Diplomacy. My father will never be friendly, never be understanding, never be… y'know… a diplomat. That's like asking a bull to dance a gentle ballet atop a wine glass while wearing ruby slippers the size of thimbles. Not two thimbles, one. One for both.


This where I come in, my mystery pen pal tells me. I have to settle the issue amicably, by going and discussing the land settlement thinger with Pagan. Whomever he might be. I have to convince him to let us stay. Not only that, says pen pal, I have to convince him that it's in the guy's best interests to let us stay, that we'll somehow be a boon to the area.


My dad's no diplomat, we all know that. Who says I'm much better, though? Granted, I lack his freakish strength, intimidating size, brutish looks and fantastically-ill temper, but I've not fared well in diplomatic situations. Remember that time in Bottomless when I dropped food on a bunch of people? Or when I farted horribly after a dish of giraffe meat and stunk up the place?

Yeah. Diplomat is no. But I have to get it done, because I fear rebellion runs in our family, and if it does my dad might try to lead a coup against me. Robert could pitch in, too, 'cause that's kinda his thing now. He leads strikes. And while I might not mind being removed from power so much, I will NOT let these people be led by Oswald the Farmer, I will NOT. He might create the best settlement ever, but he is TOO MUCH OF AN ASSHOLE to be mayor. ASSHOLES AREN'T ALLOWED TO BE MAYOR, THAT'S AN OFFICIAL PUBTON DECREE.

I sent out Barrel to scout, and he spied Hoban slouching back to his master's manor. He's gonna serve as a guide for me 'n Edmund as we head to Pagan's estate. I knew Edmund would have to come, because, bards. Great for greasing the wheels. I need all the help I can get.

Diplomacy. Wish you'd said something else, pen pal.


Dragomir the Mayor

1 comment:

  1. Okay...first thing ya gotta do Dragomir...ask him "Guess how many coins I can fit up my nose!", it's always a great conversation starter!