Second post in a week. Weird. Here's another bit of the Princess story, for what it's worth.
All right, I’ll admit this up front. Sneaking past that dragon was probably the most nerve-racking thing I’ve ever done in my relatively short life and I don’t plan on doing it ever again—not if I want my relatively short life to become a relatively long one, that is. Suffice it to say my hair is now a good ten inches shorter as a direct result of a wrong turn. I never realized before quite how confusing a dragon’s lair can be after dark. At least my hair isn’t obnoxiously long anymore.
Well, anyway, the point is, I’m out, I’m away from the castle, and I just have the clothes on my back and a sack full of cheese and bread that I managed to save from my lunches over the past few weeks. A little mold never hurt anybody, right? I’d kill for a good piece of meat, though. I haven’t had any meat except what that dragon sometimes brings me, which would be exponentially better if it wasn’t burnt to a charcoal nugget.
I suppose this is how adventures work. You go out—idiotically—from a safe place into the great unknown and hopefully you get someplace interesting without major injuries or death. Right now, I’m a little concerned about some noises that apparently indicate a ring of people closing in on me. A handsome prince on a horse with armor and a sword really might be nice, now that I think about it. Oh well; it can’t be helped now. I wonder if thessssssssssss…
Nope. Not a prince. Not even a whisker of a prince’s horse. I don’t know what’s going on, but everybody here has these things called “guns” and “camo” and I’m very confused. I’m surprised they let me have this journal back—or maybe I’m not. I don’t know, I’m just confused.
These guns make very offensive noises. I don’t like them, I don’t think. Perhaps if they were quieter they could be nice. More efficient than a sword, anyway. Also, I seriously doubt there are princes anywhere in this place. I must have crossed some kind of line when I left the castle and hopped into another country. Why they haven’t yet taken over my parents’ countries with their obviously superior weaponry is completely beyond me. Maybe I can get it out of them.
So far, no such luck. I asked a guard—at least, that’s what I assume he is—if his country is a monarchy. He just laughed, which I take to mean monarchy is outmoded. That’s okay; I’ve often thought the same thing. We’ve had some pretty… ah, different rulers over the years. There was Queen Dmiloveriatisanania—yeah, don’t even try saying that name. She was just as weird as her name, apparently. The history books praise her as a peace-loving ruler, but rumor has it that the only reason there was peace under her rule was because she decided she was a gerbil and refused to speak anything but whatever gerbils are supposed to speak. Obviously that was a real barrier to meaningful communication. It’s said that her erstwhile consort did most of the work after she lost her marbles, though he did still try to consult her in important matters. I always felt bad for that poor man. Here he was, just trying to do right by his wife and be a nice person and a good ruler and whatnot, and she goes and thinks she’s a gerbil. Pretty darn ungrateful and insensitive of her, if you ask me.
Again, I digress. I’m really bored, though. It’s kind of dark and nobody wants to talk to me because I guess I look pretty odd to them. That’s why I have this journal, so I can at least pretend to have a normal conversation with someone OTHER THAN A DRAGON. I don’t want to consign myself to the family loony bin just yet. (Hooray for royal inbreeding.) Ah, now apparently we’re going to move thirty yards away from our current position for no readily explicable reason. Brilliant.
Aha! Finally, a pseudo-friend! My guard has deigned to speak to me. He asked me where I was from. I told him the truth, and he looked at me like I was out of my mind. I’m beginning to have some misgivings about my sanity myself, but I didn’t bother to tell him that. I told him my name was Flo. No use telling him I’m a princess if he took the name of my country that strangely.
“Oh. I’m Jim. Er, Lieutenant Jim Fowler.”
I almost laughed, but mercifully my etiquette lessons saved my scrawny rear. Fowler? Who comes up with these names? Good Lord.
Oh—apparently that’s actually his family name. Where I come from, we don’t hold with family names, since it contributes to class warfare or something, so I don’t even know what my family name is or, for that matter, if we have one. It’s probably something stupid, like Duffle or Wimble. That would just figure, given the weirdness that seems to pervade my family. Here’s another guard; he’s giving me a stink eye, which probably means I should put this away now. Nobody from my country will ever believe this. Then again, nobody from this place will ever believe what goes on in my country. As they say, so it goes.