The collective term for a group of royals and nobles was locally known as a ‘wanker’.
Headed by the King, the wanker moved with an ineptness mastered with the utterly spectacular incompetence of those used to leading a wanker, therefore, rendering them chronically unable to listen, let alone act on the orders issued by anyone else. Adding to this array of pasty skinned, chinless men, a second group, servants to the wanker, and collectively known as a ‘beration’, set out five minutes behind. Carts, pack horses, and women of set fee love making up the main body.
Three hours into the hunt, alternate sport had presented itself to the wanker. ‘Dragon Slaying’ became a lesser order of the day, and an unfortunate apron and scowl sporting two were slew (‘Dragon’ being the common name for itinerant mothers’-in-law) by the laughing chinless inbreds.
Camp was struck in the early evening, and the King languished in his porta-throne smoking opium from an arm bone pipe, his minions lounging around him enjoyed the same, and from within the branches of a old knobbley oak, Gentle Annis looked on with psychopathic glee.
Her drying cloak had finally ceased its bloody dripping; an unwitting noble wandered beneath her.
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