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Botober 25: Inferior Tea Service
Less than a week left in Botober (though there are still a couple I could make up); today's prompts are:
Inferior Tea Service
Queen Agatha waited impatiently for the arrival of her Superior Tea Service. It was already two minutes overdue. For every minute she had to wait, she resolved, one of her staff would be flogged.
And today she had specifically ordered some of the Red Abyssal Wedge Clams that she'd had a craving for yesterday. It was already bad enough that she hadn't been able to have any right away, because it took hours to sail a boat out to the edge of the continental shelf, and then even longer for divers to find the clams in the deep water. She's heard that three of the divers had failed to return to the surface. She'd ordered the others compensated appropriately, hadn't she?
Finally, ten floggings-worth later, she heard the rattle of the cart. It was a relief to hear, even though she normally hated those noises and enjoined them to push the cart slowly and make it as noiseless as possible. Yes, they had to start earlier, and keep the tea hotter without affecting the taste, but they were experts, weren't they?
The doors swung open, but clumsily, the cart bashing into them on the way through and almost tipping over. She actually saw tea slopping over the side. Perhaps flogging would be too good for them, she thought. She didn't recognize the servant pushing it, either. Where was Branor?
"Right-o, queenie," he said in a horrid lower-class accent. "Here's your bloody tea." He shoved the cart forward, and she actually had to stop it with her foot, seething. When she did, the silver cover slipped off, revealing not a plate of Red Abyssal Wedge Clams, but a pile of rubbish, offal and ordure from the kitchens. She gagged at the stench.
"What is the meaning of this?" she shouted. "Guards!"
One of her guards poked his head into the room. "Wotcher, your majesty?"
"Take this man to the dungeons and have his fingernails torn out! Then send him to the headsman!"
The guard tilted his head for a second, then shook it. "Sorry, no. We've decided we're not going to do that any more. We really don't want to, you see."
"We're not heartless, though," the servant said. "You can stay here in the palace all you want. But we're not going to do what you say any more, right? You want anything, you get it yourself, all right?"
With that, the servant and the guard wandered off, laughing and joking, while Agatha sat and choked on her outrage. It was all that Broderick Shawn's fault; he'd come in and undermined all respect for her throne and her family. And now things had come to this.
Well, she didn't need them. She would just find herself some food, then ride off to Lord Bernard's. He'd make her pay for it, she was certain, but he'd help.
Now where was the kitchen? Or the stables, for that matter?
- Things: We really don't want to
- Concepts: Superior Tea Service
- Advanced: A red abyssal wedge clam
- Terrible: A pile of rubbish
Inferior Tea Service
Queen Agatha waited impatiently for the arrival of her Superior Tea Service. It was already two minutes overdue. For every minute she had to wait, she resolved, one of her staff would be flogged.
And today she had specifically ordered some of the Red Abyssal Wedge Clams that she'd had a craving for yesterday. It was already bad enough that she hadn't been able to have any right away, because it took hours to sail a boat out to the edge of the continental shelf, and then even longer for divers to find the clams in the deep water. She's heard that three of the divers had failed to return to the surface. She'd ordered the others compensated appropriately, hadn't she?
Finally, ten floggings-worth later, she heard the rattle of the cart. It was a relief to hear, even though she normally hated those noises and enjoined them to push the cart slowly and make it as noiseless as possible. Yes, they had to start earlier, and keep the tea hotter without affecting the taste, but they were experts, weren't they?
The doors swung open, but clumsily, the cart bashing into them on the way through and almost tipping over. She actually saw tea slopping over the side. Perhaps flogging would be too good for them, she thought. She didn't recognize the servant pushing it, either. Where was Branor?
"Right-o, queenie," he said in a horrid lower-class accent. "Here's your bloody tea." He shoved the cart forward, and she actually had to stop it with her foot, seething. When she did, the silver cover slipped off, revealing not a plate of Red Abyssal Wedge Clams, but a pile of rubbish, offal and ordure from the kitchens. She gagged at the stench.
"What is the meaning of this?" she shouted. "Guards!"
One of her guards poked his head into the room. "Wotcher, your majesty?"
"Take this man to the dungeons and have his fingernails torn out! Then send him to the headsman!"
The guard tilted his head for a second, then shook it. "Sorry, no. We've decided we're not going to do that any more. We really don't want to, you see."
"We're not heartless, though," the servant said. "You can stay here in the palace all you want. But we're not going to do what you say any more, right? You want anything, you get it yourself, all right?"
With that, the servant and the guard wandered off, laughing and joking, while Agatha sat and choked on her outrage. It was all that Broderick Shawn's fault; he'd come in and undermined all respect for her throne and her family. And now things had come to this.
Well, she didn't need them. She would just find herself some food, then ride off to Lord Bernard's. He'd make her pay for it, she was certain, but he'd help.
Now where was the kitchen? Or the stables, for that matter?