Instead of the recent long silences, and the less recent long and overly-prepared pieces I've treated you to, I am going to experiment over Spring Break with the serial. No, not honey buzzers or chocolate puffs, I mean where I write a little bit of a story every so often. In this case it will be every day. It will also be made up pretty much on the spot, piece by piece. As in, I have no clue what I'm going to write when I finish this introduction. Finally, each section will be blissfully short. I was inspired to this by a friend who did a serial story for the school newspaper. To prevent this introduction from becoming the majority of the first installment, I shall now immediately present to you...
The King of Cajun: A tale of breakfast and breakable plates...of steel armor
The smell of burning oil was heavy. Sir Herbert of Lokely watched the beautiful swirling patterns of smoke twine themselves around the orange sunbeams shooting in low across the western hills, highlighting where Griswold's men had emerged from the pass a few hours ago to cement the day's victory. Herbert watched his squires tending to his fatigued warhorse, stripping the barding from its still heaving, dirty, wet mass of limber muscle. Sir Herbert wished the squires were patting him down with cool, moist clothes, but he would remain in armor, his longsword cleaned and sheathed, but still at his side, until the break of the next day. It would take at least that long to secure the city, and the men needed their leaders to keep them organized and alert. Who knew what might slip through their fingers in the dark, and cheat them of the victory for which they had paid so dearly?
Lokely stepped past the blackened heap where the boiling oil had been poured, and called to a lookout on the wall above, "man of Lokely, tell your master what you see within the city. How goes the search? See you any hint that the treasure has been found?"
The smell of burning oil was thick in the air. Benjamin leaned against the back of the couch and closed his eyes, letting time slip past faster than usual in his half-sleeping state. Belian was a few feet away, through the door into the apartment's kitchen, muttering occasionally when oil splattered onto his hands, but staying at his post nontheless, flipping potatoes zealously. Grizzly Bear was still in bed. It was a typical Wednesday morning in student apartment #1. Benjamin smiled to himself, glad, as he always was, that he had gotten up and made the walk over for breakfast. He began to drift off to sleep, and time rushed past.
When he came to again, it was to hear Belian's abrupt, pleased announcement that breakfast was ready. Calling in as annoying a way as possible to Grizzly Bear in an effort to end his friend's hibernation, Benjamin sidled into the kitchen and, taking a plate from the cabinet, set to work. By the time Grizzly Bear entered, Belian and Benjamin were each carefully arranging potatoes on top of eggs and onions on his tortilla.
"Morning" they all said.
Benjamin took the large, white container of cajun seasoning from the table, turned the rotating white lid until about half of the sprinkle-top was aligned with the opening, and layered his potatoes with the rich red powder.
"Mmmmm," they all said.
"Orange juice?" asked Grizzly Bear.
"They have the spice! Seize them!" shouted the soldier at the other end of the dungeon passage, pointing with a gauntleted hand, and a mass of men, armor, and swords rushed towards the three breakfasters, who, for their part, sat dumbfounded at the board, torillas forgotten in their hands.