{Illustrated}
Once upon a time Pagne planned parties in a palace of fungus, now he is planning a revolution.
Success requires a cunning plan, hinging on the element of surprise, careful catering, and colourful costumes.
However, an unfortunate ser...
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At the heart of a dreadfully dark land, where lost socks go to be found again, grew the Palace of Tyrunvern. Towering toward the realm's ink-black skies, the fantastic fungal palace was a colourful tangle of caps, cups, stalks and shelves that sat proudly upon the stooped back of Mount Loom. Inside, at a desk that was a mushroom, on a seat that was one also, in the light of another luminous sort, was a lad with white curled hair and red curved horns.
He was not a mushroom.
Pagne was his name, and he was perusing a precariously plonked pile of paperwork. Contained in those pieces of parchment were the preparations he had been making for months. He was sure this would be the greatest Season yet. The tea parties would be terrific and the dances divine, but above all, his birthday party, when he would at last be declared an adult, would ensure everyone knew how important he knew himself to be.
With a final swirl of his mechanical quill—inscribed with the silly phrase 'Bank of England'— his work was done.
But alas, barely a moment passed before the bane of Pagne's existence blustered in and sent his parchments fluttering into the fireplace. The flames crackled ravenously, and Pagne knew every last one had been lost. He dropped his head down on his workwort desk with a huff.
The culprit was the obnoxious Prince Zaech, from far-away Amphelius. He was not Pagne's Prince, although Zaech's years of exile meant that he could hardly be considered a Prince over there, either. In truth, he was nothing more than a royal nuisance that had plagued the Palace of Tyrunvern for the past twenty years.
"Pa-ag-nay!" Zaech squawked without a trace of guilt on his hook-nosed face.
Pagne tried his best to ignore him. He did not know what the maids saw in the ponce. Impressive as the muscular body and bronze skin of the Amphoerix might be to some, the feathery features of their race were utterly absurd, but the Prince's were especially so.
Not only did Zaech have a ludicrously long tail and two oversized golden wings, the Prince of Impracticality had another dirt-brown pair of flappers as well. Then there were his golden talons instead of legs, gold feathers where hair ought to grow, and no doubt a golden brick where his brain should be.
"You're taking a nap now, when there's so much to do for the Season?" Zaech said, giving Pagne's horns a tug.
Pagne lifted his head with his most ferocious leer. "Would you just sod off so I can make sure there is a Season?" he snapped.
"I would," Zaech replied, "but there's something I want from you." He leaned on the desk's cap and bent the stalk almost to breaking.
With pursed lips, Pagne waited for him to move back again. Unfortunately when he did, the cap sprung back up so suddenly that his mechanical quill was flung into the fire to join the papers.
