Mibbet was training once again, her axe wrapped snug in about 5 layers of padding with a guard around the edge. She hated how it made choppy feel, but after choppy shattered a guard’s sword (poor Errol had saved for weeks to get a really good one too, though out of guilt she did pay to replace it,) Sir Humphrey had insisted that choppy should be kept firmly under wraps during any sparring vs a live opponent.

Not that it made too much difference as the number of smashed shakos, beautifully battered breastplates, glanced greaves, and most unfortunately of all cruelly crushed codpieces could attest.

Some would cry foul about unfair play, but Sir Humphrey and the fellow guards hadn’t gotten where they did by being honourable, you wanted honourable to a fault try the graveyard, the reason these guards were still here was because everybody expected them to be honourable, and while they were waiting they got a knee in the nads, or a sword in the back. Because despite what whatever ridiculous novels may tell you real guards don’t wait turns. If you try that swinging from the chandelier they’ll cut the rope and snicker while doing it. (Alternatively they may let you realise why grabbing hold of a metal frame full of hot candles and drippy wax, and making it move side to side is a very bad idea for your long term health then deck you when you come down.)

The first rule in the royal guards handbook is. “There is a requirement for the royal guard to be polite, honourable, and chivalrous in word and deed, (and if they believe that more fool them, punch the bastards we don’t want that shit spreading, people will get expectations.)” The second bit is argued to be a later addition, but given that it’s in the same handwriting just penned 5 years later it could also be said to simply be the effect of trying that nonsense, and coming out of it the wiser.

So nobody commented (except maybe to grumble, and occasionally squeak for obvious, and somewhat painful reasons.) When it was decided a live princess with at least half a brain was far more important than another buffoon with no sense of reality, I mean that kind gave orders. They volunteered people, and volunteering was bad for your health.

The training had gone on for an hour and a half when it was interrupted by a commotion (or maybe a ruckus, or there could even be ructions on.) From the garden.

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Moses Lawen (or Moe to the few friends he had of the non horticultural variety, a very rare breed indeed.) Was full of piss and vinegar today, and rightly so, something rather sulphurous had been buried in his begonias, his aspidistra were ashen, and the culprit was nowhere to be found. (Moses felt that if the individual ever did get found, namely by him, then their body never would be, he had some bloody fine compost heaps that would make sure of that.) So he readied the gardeners friend (a flask of whisky, the pitchfork was just in case.) Then set off in search of his first victim to be.

His first clue on the trail of the horticulture harming horror was a holey hedge maze. Last Moses had checked he was fairly sure mazes had a decidedly maze like quality. That was the point, unless he missed a memo somewhere down the line. Now for some reason this particular hedge maze was somewhat more direct than the norm. What with having a hole about the size of a particularly lanky Shetland pony in a straight line clean through the middle. At this Moses reconsidered his personal position on his attitude towards the intruder. After this he would shove a pitchfork up the buggers jacksie, and stick them up on the castle wall as a warning to others.

After that Moses wished he could say the trail went cold, but quite the opposite was true. apparently on their journey through the royal gardens the very burny intruder had made, crispy caladium, fried forsythia, roasted roses, and turned thrift into tinder. Well at least it was easy to follow, the somewhat smokey lawn. (How dare they did they have any idea how long he spent rolling, mowing, aerating, and watering the acres and acres of grass here?) but eventually the trail came to an end and what an end it was. There was a multi stone massive moggy rolling about in the catnip.

Moses was never what you would call the sharpest tool in the shed (despite his career choice) and he was livid, which may explain his next somewhat ill advised action. He took his pitchfork (which ironically given the amount of care he put into maintaining it may have been the sharpest tool in the shed. Squared his shoulders, and gave a Hellcat almost as tall as he was a gentle prod.

The results were in a word spectacular, Moses took a glance at the now half a pitchfork, remembered these handy things called survival instincts, and legged it. The hellcat meanwhile took off like a...... well if you’ll excuse the pun cat out of hell.

Rascal had never been poked before, and having experienced it once he could not say he found the experience all that enjoyable. What he could say was a shrieking indignant meow that sounded like a drunken buzzsaw attempting karaoke to impress a girl it liked.

This was accompanied by the ever traditional feline rocket launch, in which his back claws slashed the metal pitchfork in half, and a serious case of nip induced zoomies.

They tore through the garden at a terrifying speed, often literally, then when he reached a tree up he went. There is unfortunately one constant between most worlds. Unless a prophet is involved bushes and trees are not known for their fireproof qualities. Nor are they known to bear the weight of equine sized felines easily. So before you could even say TIMBER down it came. By this point Rascal had had quite enough, even the fun fuzzy feeling induced by the nice plants was wearing off, so after mauling the tree for a few minutes he gave up, found a good hiding place, and went to sleep.