Adjudication

Two pale full moons hung over the castle like an executioner's lover, their reflections absorbing the machine below. It's cogs and gears pumped and turned away, whittling the use of a lubricant, social or economical, moot. The celestial beholder was stained in the skyline, unwavering in presence as it loitered over the kingdom's ants, unnoticed by the commoners due to its humble size and appearance, a humanoid figure in a non-descriptive cloak that covered its essence. The god of naught knew not and had known this well; it sought to absolve itself of the sinful knowing of nothing at all.

So there he flew in all of his not knowing and not caring, the Apathetor, the gavel.

In an instant, Toviyah would melt into the skyline and merge with the castle's inner atmosphere, greeted with wonderful decor and splendor. He was pleased with the light atmosphere of gaudy chandeliers and the gentle flames of enlightenment, allowing the room to take on the cowards shade of greed and gold. This was the main entrance: even though the deity took not to the portals of metal and wood, he knew not of kindness and respect, and so he gave it. The jester, hidden and with solemn volume, announced itself to the world outside of his own, speaking to the metal ants who would protect the one who knew.

"Have you a crown to call?" Toviyah spoke with a shaky tone, his words short and without exposition. "Is the courser drawn at sacrifice or at plea?" The cloak melted away with whatever was inside, wisping into dust then ash then air then atoms.

"You will be offered to carry my voice, or offered to carry my message." The voice would ring behind a singular insect while the moons underneath the hood bore pale light that shone in narrow path. The shiny particle would move to its dominator or have its spirit unglued to the heavy sack of flesh that bound it so tightly. Then, in a tone uncharacteristic of the figure so far, a delighted, sing-song symphony escaped from the abyssal opening of cloth. "Tell the king the court is more than merry." A gentle push on the back of the soldier would get him moving, but to what extent, or to do what, was in question.

It was one of those nights again. Only this time instead of giant heartless stalking them from the shadow of the wood, it was a super-freak of another nature. He looked like a sad, pointy clown had a night of unscrupulous yet satisfying sex with an angry, anorexic jester. The result was this thing whose movements were confusingly artistic, poetry in lotion and worth one thousand curds of the finest cheese in all the kingdom. Then, the man touched him and his loins quivered, but he remained composed.

Mind, his loins didn't quiver out of arousal as might be implied. The armor had been chaffing him all night whenever he moved, so he had done his best to stay absolutely still. Then this dapper sideshow gentleman that seemed to rape the very concepts of physical law appeared, and gave him a slight push. That was enough for him to stagger back and feel the cold, sweaty steel of a metal chain mail rub against his taint, and the interlinking chains grabbed the unshaven hairs and pulled them. This elicited a discomforted yelp from the man, his ass clenching as his face twisted in clear discontent with his present circumstance.

He shot the other guard a look. The guard looked at him, and shrugged. "He asked you," he stated almost in a chiding manner. They both knew standard procedure, put in place in the time of the old kings when war raged across the Kingdom in times long since forgotten. "When you see something weird don't engage it. Report it right then." Informally phrased, of course. The official version took a month of studying literature and three paragraphs of some admittedly solid poetry to understand.

"I know, but..." he trailed, almost as if his face explained it all. Do understand: the guards were actually freaked out- the guard chaffing against his armor considerably less so than the guard who wasn't, but that training was rather general. They didn't show their freak outs or emotions when on duty. This was something that was insisted upon by the old noble guard when they were around. 'If we are to guard nobles, we must act as nobles ourselves'. Standards lessened, certainly, but somethings still held true.

So, the guard who chaffed waddled into the castle groaning the whole way, motivated by the opportunity to ask for either the night off or at least a break to address his distressful dress disaster. And tell the other guards so that they would tell the prince, of course.

It didn't take very long for the message to spread. Roughly ten minutes, give or take. Alexander was being prepped as was his need to be ready. He had very nearly gone out tonight, adventuring across the worlds for the sake of sightseeing but was otherwise distracted by the events that the night had promised, only to be given a whole set of new ones presented by a single being who might pose a big challenge.

But that was a story for later. Alexander was being prepped, but in the minds of the guard would hopefully not be meeting with the man at all. There were rules to these things. Procedures to follow, principles to be met, social constructions to appropriately adhere to. Toviyah would be greeted outside by a tired looking man not in armor but in rumpled  noble dress, unshaven and smelling of bathing salts and alcohol. A red stain on his color from wine he had mostly likely just indulged in, and a wobble in his stance.

"Alright sir,"  the man stated gruffly. "My name is Bully Mooson, you can call me Mister Mooson, and no I am not a denizen of the Kingdom by birth." Mister Mooson was also a cow. A cow-man, some might say. An anthropomorphic cow to others. Whatever the classification, he sounded very disinterested, as though he had a headache of some kind. "Moving on from that, I have a form for you to fill out if you'd like an audience with the prince. Usually we do it by appointment, but those with special circumstance can often be seen in a quicker manner provided it is truly extenuating."

The form had general things on it like name, date of birth, world of origin, ethnicity (which had since been updated with 100+ animal species), statement of purpose, and other essential items.

A frown of disappointment at the unintelligible approach of the soldiers was painted on the opal visage that composed the jester's face. He placed a gentle but firm hand on the papers and ushered them downward smoothly, not too fast as to seem aggressive but not slow enough to be taken as some sort of suggestion. "No." With the rather brief motion concluded, Toviyah allowed his hood to fall on his back as he brushed past the cowkin. A somber saunter towards the nearest portal of stairs and he was off, arbitrarily attempting to ascend the torturously tall tower.

For a moment, the qualified bovine stood confused as the man walked past him, dropping his tired attitude partially as he turned to face the man's side, then back. "Sir?" He called out in futility. "Sir?" He began to follow the man, chattering away at his back about procedures and legal actions, that the guards would have to act, and more. This was admittedly a scenario that the cowman should have been thinking about- he should have been more warm and clear. The guards will be required to prevent him from gaining audience with the prince.

Truthfully, it wouldn't even really be that big of a deal if not for two things. It wasn't as though Alexander was exactly strict about when people saw him. It was purely because of what the man was- he had, without really doing anything, shown his power and that he was powerful. The fear he inspired made him an apparent threat. This is not to imply that people just get to pass through willy-nilly. But this situation in particular seemed quite severe when compared to the average farmer whose fields have been vandalized demanding an immediate audience to sort out taxes and ask for help from the crown.

"Sir!" He called out again, but by this time the guards had already been prepared and they made a wall in front of Toviyah to bar his approach. The guards in the Castle and indeed, the whole Kingdom were not warriors. They weren't trained to be soldiers, or fighters, but guardians. They were very protective, and the fighting style given to them was non-aggressive. They used their shields and spears to protect themselves and fight from a distance, and had been given quite a bit of training to take abuse. They didn't go down easily, but they weren't that efficient at killing, or even incapacitating. They were just great at outlasting.

And because of its scarcity, they weren't so much prepared for magic- something Alexander wanted to address when other things had been properly sorted.

The guards as individuals, however, were realistically afraid. They were willing to die for their prince, but they didn't wish to plunge blindly into death if it could be avoided- nobody wanted to make them die when not needed. At least, nobody in charge of them. They wore their fear under their helmets, some on their faces and others on their brow. They didn't point their spears at the on-comer, but lowered them at a angle while remaining silent. The bovine came up behind him, panting as he wagged his hoof-hands with fervor towards the guards. "Wait, stop! No! Bad idea!" He panted as he caught up to them.

"The prince wouldn't want this," he huffed excitedly from between anxious breathes. "There is a clear difference between suicide and service!" He took the clipboard from under his pit, and showed it. "Please, sir, I apologize for coming off as gruff earlier, please sign this form. The men here are loyal enough that they'll die for the prince, and he'd feel terrible if that happened! They don't want to let you through without a form! Please," he begged in an actually dignified fashion. While the desperation was in his voice, it never overcome his conviction or his insistence. His eyes were pleading, but sharp and strong. This cow man... was no bully.

The ants spread like foam and solidified into an annoying wall of plaster. The swarmed and almost tripped over each other in a non-synchronized movement; were they even soldiers? They looked more like smoke-drunk bees desperately trying to defend the gluttonous queen. The fat dalmatian approached Toviyah once again with the mountain of time wasted and nature's deceased form. The Jester would waste no more while those around him wasted away. The front of his cloaked moved marginally as he reached for something at his waist inside, dispensing a simple blue paintbrush the size of a ballpoint pen. Striking the bottom of the top paper a single time in a stroke that left a "T" that had it's top and bottoms connected, Toviyah spoke.

"That is all of the time I will throw away for your legalities. Any more of my time wasted will be taken from your own." The tone was clear but brief, as if it were as absolute as entropy. The Apathetor's face glowed like a pale star amongst stellar debris, his eyes meteors that would burn the atmosphere of bravery in the most stout of celestial defenders and pierce to the soft, molten core that he sought with such a hunger that it almost felt real.

But he knew not of this mortal hunger, so he chased it endlessly.

The cow man looked panicked. A simple signature on the form wasn't enough to allow passage. The man made a gesture to placate the situation, but his gesture was arrogant and revealed the depths of his vanity. Too important for procedure, and too big a risk for the guards to allow through without some "official" affirmation that he would not try to harm the prince. The scared young men knew what the visitor's dismissal meant. They steeled themselves for a fight that they could not win.

For those young men, and the bovine opposite them, fear was real. That moment lasted as one long, pained moment not unlike when the suicidal cry and curse themselves to the point of believing that they were capable of doing what they had set their hearts to do. To throw their lives away vainly to save the prince, only for him to die shortly after. It was their greatest weight and it crushed their courage beneath its girth, spreading over their shoulders as though they may bare the burden like a community. But that was not to be. Each of them feared in their own way.

Each young guard grieved. Yet that moment did not end on a sour note but one that shocked them. A voice called out that canceled their fear and drew their attention, drawing pieces of shattered courage back to its feet. The young prince's voice could be heard only moments before his calm, rhythmic steps became audible enough that his voice did not need to carry his intention. "Wait just a moment," he called out as he rounded the corner of the upper hall, making eye contact with the bovine and the guards. His expression was grave, for he expected some terrible scene to greet him.

The relief in his timely arrival swept over his face, replaced with a gentle and glad smile. "Every one, please, do not throw your lives away. Retreat to your posts for now. I'll handle this as I am best able." Uncertain stares started across their eyes and skeptical influence grasp their brows and pulled them into a representative position. They wanted to question, but they knew why Alexander commanded them as he did. The young prince, after all, was the last of the nobles after they had been slaughtered by a mad-man months ago.

Despite his naivety and lack of social skills outside of the court which few of them had observed firsthand, he was deeply empathetic and cared greatly for the suffering of others. He did not wish the guard to come to harm against a foe that they could not stand on equal or near-equal ground with. The prince, survivor of the massacre by supposed sheer luck of missing the day, had come to believe strongly in mercy and peace.

Besides... the Prince had an ulterior reason. If this did turn sour, he had tools to combat the man. He didn't know whether or not he could win but he had faith in his friends and what they had shown him. Indeed, the Dream Eaters had as much to do with his change in world view as his position and subsequent experience had. Oswald still slept in the corners of the Castle. Despite his well-meaning nature, Oswald was not suited for helping here. His temper was too ill, and he could endanger others. Although he may have already heard the commotion...

The guards and the bovine man retreated, their fear diminished but not vanished. Alexander turned a face with no warmth or fear towards the man. He was truly afraid, but he refused to show weakness. After all, mother had taught him better. "You've come late tonight," Alexander informed the man. His tone was authoritative, but not threatening. "I'll hope it was not a waste for you. Why have you come, stranger?"