Yes, it's going to be another one of those stories. Inspired by countless requests for a follow-up and some realistic liberties with our main character. I wanted to change the 'club' while still retaining the story's base concept (sick burns), allowing for new interactions to unfold in different scenarios.
Word Count: 1104 words.
01. - Begun the Gardening Has
It starts on a whim, by complete accident, no one could have seen it coming.
And in hindsight, the committee wishes that they had, so they could steer the king clear of it.
A visit to a Hoshidan village in the middle of bumfuck scenic nowhere is what triggers it. It has no name and the resident commoners agree that it's for the best, because even if it did, no one would bother to learn it.
The novelty proves itself in the long run, as local tourism is considerably up by a factor of four in contrast to similar, generically-themed rustic communities.
Beyond that, it has nothing of interest. Everything sucks. Jakob in particular wants it branded as their slogan, but speaks nothing of it when the peasants are in range, a contrived smile plastered on his sweating face as the shoeless village kids scamper by.
Their business is as small and inconsequential as the settlement itself. With Anankos sealed and an ephemeral kingdom in need of more-than-a-few reparations, the newly-crowned king sets forth on a pacifist's conquest to seek aid from outside communities willing to offer their resources for a noble cause, and the path to that goal is paved in dull politics and fortnightly visits for the sake of relationship-building.
Unfortunately, the usual suspects for such a voluntary endeavor are engrossed with ill-timed issues of their own.
Hoshido is in the middle of a mortifying puppet uprising brought on by magic scrolls gone awry and a tinkering tactician with more time than he knows what to do with.
Izumo is more than happy to relinquish all the excess supplies in their stock, but even so, a kingdom can only progress so far on mere hot towels and bath salts alone.
Nohr has nothing. It never does. Next.
Kohga doesn't even exist anymore. Mokushu sends its regards.
And yet, their troubles only truly unravel when a certain serf—one as nameless and forgettable as the rest but with the flair and thirst of a cougar—approaches the king with a smile as bright as the sweltering sun.
A paragon of friendliness (and not to mention, stranger to subtlety), the king readily accepts her sultry invitation with a smile to match. Azura and Felicia both follow with little more to add than sharing his inability to deny themselves the pleasure of good company.
'This woman is old.'
Jakob begrudgingly trods behind them, scoffing all the while. He takes extra care to make each scathing stomp count, so that the peasant soil knows of its unworthiness to lie under him.
'Too old...'
He has half a mind to lash out at the smelly, foul, dirt-caked kids that belittle him and his apparently less-than-masculine ponytail, with only the illusive image of a humble king's humble butler holding back the urge.
'She's like a living fossil.'
'Or a cake past its expiration date..'
Wary of the rotting-from-the-inside-pastry's intentions, Jakob narrows his eyes, shooting daggers at her from a sharp—safe distance.
'Why is she looking at him so intently?'
'Her eyes..'
'You're treading on thin ice, milady..'
Every so often, he sees it, that tired bag brushing a sly arm up against the king (who remains ever oblivious bless his stupid heart).
Jakob shivers, he shivers hard, and his expression sours beyond reason.
'Get away get away get away get away get away get away.'
Azura and Felicia are as blind as their leader, they see nothing, leaving Jakob the disgusted sole prisoner to a wretched performance far past its prime (if it was ever there to begin with). He quickens his pace, catching up to them with but a single thought on his mind.
'Take out the trash...'
And take out the trash he does—or at least, he would have, had the party not stop just short of him reeling his dense lord into the safety of his buttling arms.
Their destination is but a dirt patch that is no less scenic bumfucking than any other part of the village.
It's here that cruel fate deals its hand. The Devil in the details introduces herself as the recently-widowed (no surprise there, Jakob reckons) Something-Something Last-Name. Though the others pay their condolences with the utmost respect, Jakob merely stands aside with a skeptical grimace. He pays as much attention to her as she does to him—which is to say, he only catches scattered intervals of the cougar's sob story.
Apparently her beloved of days long past was an ogre—the real meaty kind—masked, faceless, and chained by what could only be described as 'emotional baggage' (Felicia undeniably cringes at this revelation, but maintains a smile nonetheless).
The cougar reminisces of their romance and does so for quite a while, a passionate love met with scorn by her neighbors and kinkshaming by her parents, but she cared not for their approval.
Jakob yawns because none of this is particularly important or has any relevance to anything. Long story short the fell beast was savagely slain by the nameless peasants some moons ago—an act justified by a newly-enacted edict outlawing marriage to bloodthirsty reanimated humanoids—and sacrificed to the First Dragons in exchange for one thing—a bountiful season's harvest.
And for better or worse, it actually worked.
Azura is abruptly handed an abnormally large daikon radish, to which she appropriately responds with a heavenly-pronounced. "What."
Be it by sheer coincidence or some brand of foul, accursed, cougar-detesting sorcery, the village is swamped from head to toe in radishes, and the withering hag insists that the king accept some of the plentiful produce as a token of their bond. Emphasis on bond.
To further sweeten the deal, she throws in an unassuming packet of seeds so that Valla too may gain a headstart sowing its fields with phallic vegetables—and though she sincerely claims with a thin layer of fervent subterfuge that the gift is from the bottom of her heart, it's more than likely that she just wanted to use the subsequent opportunity to spout shameless innuendo.
"Plant it in the ground," she huskily whispers, rubbing her hands up the king's sides. "Or plant it inside me.."
Evidently Corrin doesn't think much of her sad proposal—if at all—because the next thing he does is unconsciously shove the harlot away out of excitement. Primal feelings brewing within him, he takes one overjoyed glance at the daikon seeds before promptly announcing an edict of his very own.
"Oh gods... O-Oh... Oh gods.. Guys, do you know what this means?"
"We finally have a use for the greenhouse!"
And the king's happiness knew no bounds.
So, should this mess continue? Give me a sloppy spoonful of your hot opinions.