13th April 2020

Perhaps it was the way the diamante bracelet sparkled so upon her wrist, or how the comforting tug of the leash was inclined to make her feel quite so safe and warm but Alice was beginning to definitely warm to Sir Rosehip Hip Chevalier, much against her better judgement it should be stated quite strongly. So profound was this most peculiar feeling of enamourment that after the fifteenth occasion the poor knight lost his equinely crested helm falling from his charger to end shoulder deep in one of the abundant rabbit holes turning the otherwise luxuriously grassed playing area into a geographic parody of a Welsh mining village Alice felt compelled to press her lips against the old warriors cheek.

Just how immature seamen are able to indulge a full set of whiskers quite so easily at such a young age was something that weighed heavy upon Alices imagination. Her only consistent experience with tonsorial accoutrement before this sudden impulse to peck the Red Knight upon the cheek was with that grand old man of literature Mister Charles Dickens whose glorious beard was only matched in voluminousness by some of the more astoundingly lengthy diatribes within his quite excellent if somewhat preachily moralistic works. Mister Dodgson, the only other gentleman Alice had kissed to any significant degree, and then only after the strongest of protestations  was wholly shaven, except for the one occasion he attempted a pair of Prince Albert whiskers which just never truly came to any significance whatsoever expect that upon each embrace they ticked Alices fancy just a little too interestingly.

Sir Rosehips beard whilst full was surprisingly soft, much as Alice had oft imagined that other ancient knight Don Quixote’s would be. Cervantes was one of the author’s Alice was fond of reading with deepest attention, even though much of the verbal interplay was beyond her ability to comprehend.

“Thank you, my dear, that was most unexpected.”

Sir Rosehip Hip Chevalier’s face turned quite as scarlet as an elder sister, and as the two participants eyes briefly met they jointly decided that the incident, similarly to many another moment of indiscretion between senior and junior was best left in the future eternally unmentioned.

“I have a strong sensation of impending function.”

Sir Rosehips falls had become so regular as to be a constant.

“How very mathematical of you.”

“My friends call me Roter Ritter, you know?”

“What do you enemies call you?”

Well, Roter Ritter naturally!”

Alice considered the profound nature of linguistics momentarily, then decided it was all but Greek to her.

“Do you mind of I walk awhile? My horse, the magnificent Sanguine, is beginning to limp just a little.”

Alice considerately moved a little leftwards to allow Sir Rosehip Hip Chevalier a parallel tack.

“You don’t walk much do you, Sir Knight.”

“In truth I hardly ever walk at all. My Sabaton are far too pointy for easy or precise meandering.”

“Then Sanguine must be very precious to you.”

“He is the very stuff that fills me up! The cherry at the heart of my ruby encrusted vermillion being. He is also rather vein!”

Alice had begun to note an ever-increasing flock of homonym swooping and soaring ominously through the narrative’s vocabulary.

“Why are we heading Westward when the Red King is situated to the East?”

“My dear child, I think your social compass is a little amiss.”

Alice considered Sir Rosehips statement for several moves, one sliding left but a pace and one sliding right.

“I am not really aware of the ‘social compass’ you reference, I was more making a purely cartographic point.”


The knight’s response effectively severed all other lines of continuation.

“Did you see that?”

Sir Rosehip Hip Chevalier climbed up on Sanguine’s back with some hast and began immediately to twirl a rather wicked looking battle axe about his ears.

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