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I start somewhere.... NOT the beginning.  Then there's a lot of booze and hard work.  Mostly booze actually.....  Then ...eventually.... you gotta tie it all together with something resembling a coherent plot.  Or maybe not.  Whatever.  And then there's the magic of release!  And then.... repeat!

EDIT: Well it's not really an edit, I haven't posted this yet.  But I don't want to sound like I'm dissing the genre or anything.  It's just that my methods are chaotic and occasionally helped along with a healthy dose of Irish whiskey.  I'm not about to justify these methods nor recommend them to anyone else (how many full-length games have I released in the last 6 years?), but that's the way I roll and that's what the question asked.  Usually I've got this outline/design document, also produced under the influence.  I follow it when I can't think of anything more interesting to do instead.  Really, the trick is to stick with it until it's done or... it won't ever be.  Other methods are just window dressing.

>>APPOINT COW AS BISHOP

...and, assuming we can walk and chew gum at he same time....

>>ADMIT NEXT AUDIENCE

Why didn't Jerry take the gun.... it's his gun.  Unless it's another Jerry/Gerry.  I'm so confused.  And drunk.  But that's another story.  So confused......  Where's the happy/nauseous swaying cup emoticon when you need it: Ponch!  I summon thee!

    "Uncle Gerry?"
    Shit!
     The rain pounded hypnotically on the roof of the car.  Maybe the kid would just fall back asleep.
    "Uncle Gerry, are we home yet?"
    Gerald rubbed his hand over his balding scalp again, and slowly exhaled.  This wasn't going to end well:  "No kiddo.  It's still a long way."
    "Mommy-?"
    "Mommy's sleeping."
    There was a long pause.  Gerald looked over at the slouched body in the passenger seat, still clutching the crocodile-skinned briefcase.  It was dark in the alley, and from behind it would be hard to see the blood streaked over her face anyway.  Gerald wondered if there might be enough blood to soak through the seat and pool on the floor, but then put the thought out of his mind.  A light flicked on in a window above the alley, but it was the wrong window.
     "Can you sing me a song?" the kid asked, plaintively.
     Gerald bit his lip.
     "Mommy always sings me the ducky song."
     "I don't know the ducky song."
     "It goes like this-"
     "Let's just listen to some jazz," Gerald said, turning on the radio.  "That shit always puts me to sleep."
     He winced, not meaning to swear in front of the kid, but he didn't seem to notice.  Shit, the kid probably heard worse every time his mom opened her big fat mouth.  Poor kid.  Gerald sat, staring out into the rain as they were serenaded by the canting lilt of a soporific saxophone to the beat of the drumming rain.  He checked his messages, but there was nothing from Emory.  Was that rhythmic breathing coming again from the back seat?  'Cause it sure as hell wasn't coming from the radio.  Shit, he hated jazz. 
     The rain continued, unrelenting.  They'd have to move soon.  Los Amigos were out there, looking for him.  Looking for them.  He glanced over at the body again.  There was the glint of the necklace he'd given her on the island.  Stupid whore.  But he couldn't keep moving for long without a wad of cash to help things along, and there was only one place he knew where a guy like him could make a withdrawal of that magnitude at this hour.  He stared across the alley at the back door to the titty bar, hand instinctively reaching for the piece concealed inside his coat.  Only one shot left, he knew.  This was going to take some dramatics to pull off.
     Another window lit up: third storey, second from the end.  Gerald checked in the mirror that the kid was out, leaned over to kiss the corpse on the cheek, then slipped quietly out into the rain.

Each "year" in the game consists of 14 days and certain days will bring special events. Taxes are paid to the Crown on the 10th day of the year and salaries and other costs are paid automatically on the 13th day of the year. Don't worry, the Jester, or whoever has been assigned as your ADVISOR, will explain things as they come up.

Since this is a fantasy kingdom each YEAR only has 12 DAYS.

WOOT!  We get to collect taxes but don't have to pay salaries!  I'm liking the vagueness and changeability of this medieval calendar!

In the long run though, I can see the seasons being thrown out of whack, which might adversely affect planting and the harvest, which in turn may lead to mass starvation and disenchantment with the government....

>> SUMMON THE DIVINE WHAM TO FIX INCONSISTENCIES IN THE CALENDAR

Oh, I don't know about reserving for 3-4 days in a 10 day comp.    I say you can reserve post, to make sure no one else posts in your window, for no more than two hours.  Otherwise we'll never all get our fingers in this pie.

[gold:]

gold: Ghost
silver: selmiak
bronze: TheBitPriest

Congratulations Mr. K. Conan!  Well written, and well deserved!

....er, uh.... no it doesn't.... 

Remember to quote the post you want to +1 for voting purposes. It makes my life soooo much easier when I tally the votes on what action to run next.

+1

....can I still change the rotation of my entry?

>>Promote SHADOWY TRAVELLER to position of youth league leader

Also, I like Miguel's idea of harnessing the power of propaganda to cement our position, however I'm leery of the unstabilizing impact that mass literacy might have on our absolute monarchy.  Is there no way to employ a herald or crier who can go around spouting propaganda orally?  Of course if everyone is already literate then starting a newspaper makes sense....  If only we had a proper census of the kingdom, we would know the target market for our repressive rule and wouldn't have to be guessing at the most appropriate vector for mass indoctrination. 

[Character:]

Character: I vote Sane Co. for the ignorant boastfulness of Volgarr the Greatly Misinformed
Plot: I vote kconan for the way he built up suspense, and then tied it all together neatly.
Atmosphere: In terms of feeling I think WHAM did best with the intensity of the rewiring in zero gravity with tight time pressure.
Background World: I vote WHAM for a unique slice of a sci-fi world and kconan for a a rural idyll with (brilliant!) hillbilly gangsters.
Word Choice/Style: I vote WHAM for his punchy style that communicates much while leaving a great deal of it unsaid.
Topic: I think technically kconan wins, since the promise and its breaking were both critical plot details, while in the other stories the broken promises seemed to be collateral damage.

[jester]

But worry not, with most of the old King's servant folk dead there is nobody to pay salary to!

So.... who are we feeding?  And more importantly how much will it cost?  I'm all in favour of largesse if we've got it to spend, but as finances are a bit tight at the moment I'm not sure feeding people that wouldn't starve anyway is the best use of our dwindling gold supply.

+1 on granting another audience.

Conducting a census of the kingdom is also a really good idea, but I'm sure it will be tiresome to administer.  We should keep our eyes open for a minister of the interior to handle that.  Actually a whole cabinet would be a good idea: who do we have so far?

jester: Grand Vizier/Prime Minister
cat: Agriculture
Dennis of Frostsea: Trade
Mandarb: Industry
Construed of Grimm: Infrastructure
Lancelot: Defence

As I see it we need someone trustworthy in finance, health (especially ours!), spirituality (if only to reinforce our divine right to power in the eyes of the masses), interior (census, education, policing -we should have a separate minister with the power to use force just in case Lancelot and his men walk), admiralty (eventually I want to be able to exert some control over that ocean and the riches within and beyond it) and foreign affairs (ambassadors, spying, diplomacy....).  The last two aren't urgent, but I think we should definitely establish a chain of command to streamline our royal power.  Oooo, we may also need someone to run our youth league, in case we need a mob of goons to sway public opinion.  Something to think about anyway....

As I understand it, trade has almost entirely collapsed (since we as a nation apparently have no collective memory of where places we used to trade with are located ).  But suspending disbelief for the sake of a fun game, it seems to me that investing 5 gold pieces a year in some relatively reliable muscle and opening trade routes will prove to be a very wise investment in the long run.  Even if Lancelot fails, it's only costing us a quarter of our yearly income.  But in the event that he is successful, we stand to gain a lot of revenue, reducing the relative amount that his posse drains from our coffers and opening up the possibility of more ambitious undertakings.  I would strongly argue that we should spend the remaining 15 golds on other "investments" (speculations?) rather than more elephant pyramids.

[Bloom]

Obsession in Blue

   Wallace entered the living room in a happy mood, as if the weight of the world had never sat upon his slouched shoulders or weighed heavily on the unibrow nestled comfortably atop his thick black plastic glasses.  Now the working day was done, and he had all the time in the world to work on his top-secret game project.  In a playful state, he grabbed his suspenders and danced a nifty jig before somersaulting over the back of the sofa to land in a flawless TV-watching position.  He looked gayly from left to right, but there was no audience for his exploit.
   Odd.  He glanced at the TV which loomed impassively in it's off position.  The absence of its warming glow reminded Wallace of an emptiness in his soul, and he glanced around his surroundings again.  How very ....strange.  His girlfriend was usually here on the sofa when he came in, watching some sitcom or reality show.  How often had he laughed at her silly taste in television programming?   His gaze fell to the rut in the cushion on her half of the couch that gently preserved the arc of her shapely bottom, then to the back of the couch where her curly golden sheddings marked her girl-turf.  Where was the love of his life?  A moment of panic washed him over like a bucket prank in a highschool change room: Pookie had left him!
   Wallace rushed to the kitchen, his long purposeful strides made spider-like by the tight pants that he had hitched up two inches too high.  There, on the counter, in a vase, sat the Bloom.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  The large pink rose was a symbol of devotion: he had given it to Pookie to show the intensity of his love for her, and she had ever since preserved it as a gesture of her faithfulness.  By what dark feminine art she had accomplished this he knew not, for floral upkeep was not his expertise, but he understood the meaning behind it.  And here the Bloom stood, and so all was well.
   Or was it?  Wallace peered more closely at the petals of the rose, which seemed dry and a little shrivelled at the edges.  He gingerly poked at it, and heard the crisp crinkling of breaking organic matter.  Perhaps it was nothing: flowers got old, he told himself.  Even Pookie could not stop the sands of time from slowly grinding the life out this rootless efflorescence....
   Wallace delicately tilted the vase, turning it gently on the counter top.  There was no sloshing weight within it: the vase was dry.  Wallace gently righted the sacred Bloom, pensive.  What did it mean?
   He heard clicking from the dining room, and proceeded there directly.  Rounding the corner he saw her, seated at the table, staring intently at the content of her laptop.  She looked up and smiled at him, the radiant glow of dawn after a colder than usual night.  Wallace's heart skipped a beat before he smiled back at her.
     â€œPookie!” he snorted in his most endearing tone.  “What are you up to?”
   â€œOh, just a bit of work.  For the office.”  She smiled at him radiantly, then returned to her work.  That smile was bewitching, the tone so soothing.  What a stunningly gorgeous creature she was.  But Wallace's mind betrayed the impulse of his heart: something did not quite add up.  There, in the mirror behind her, he could see part of the reflected screen over her shoulder.  And on that fraction of screen he could swear he saw his game editor....

   Pookie was not interested in game-design.  Wallace considered that to be one of her more endearing features, and Pookie was well-endowed with many an endearing feature.  What was she up to?  The curiosity gnawed at him.  Sure, they had talked about his ambition of being an indy game designer.  He had waxed on about his dream project of a sci-fi cave-man cross-over, but all this had garnered from Pookie was wry bemusement.  Indeed, from her nest in front of the TV she had often wondered at his own taste in hobbies as he laboured away in front of his own laptop.  Why now the volte-face?  And why was she hiding her interest from him?
   Her lunch break, at the café.  She sat alone amongst the crowd, flawless beauty marred by a slightly furrowed brow as she stared, engrossed, into her laptop.   Wallace turned to look at her out of the corner of his eye, a fedora making his forehead sweat and a fake beard making his chin itch.  He idly traced the stem of the Bloom in his trench coat pocket before making his move.  The place was busy, and she was immersed: she would have no reason to suspect a stranger pausing behind her.  He ignored the quizzical look of the waitress as he stalked casually around the perimeter of the business.  In a moment he was in position, unfurling a large newspaper through which he had carefully cut two peep-holes through the zeros of a 100% guarantee in an advertisement.  Pookie was definitely using his game editor.  And was that a cyborg jungle-woman sprite?

   Definitely a cyborg jungle-woman sprite!  Her tight leopard print bra and grass skirt could not hide the mechanical arm and ocular implant.  Was that Seajun's work?!?  She was corresponding with his artist!  How had she even contacted Seajun -the guy was some sort of Bulgarian hermit!  Wallace looked from the busty jungle-woman cyborg on the screen to the busty Jezabel on the bed, brow ever more creased and posture ever more slumped.  He rocked uncomfortably in the clothes hamper, trying to get a better view through the floral plastic pattern, crinkling the desiccating flower in his pocket as he did so.  Pookie paused, glanced up momentarily, then plunged back into the project.  His project!  She was stealing his ideas.  Stealing his collaborators.  She was stealing his very identity!  Even his crooked posture was not sacred....  Soon she would be sporting his thick plastic rimmed glasses and snappy suspenders.  The rose crinkled again.

   He loved Pookie.  He loved game design.  How was it that the combination of his two greatest loves resulted in such an all-consuming hatred?  It was like his lover and his best friend had ran away together: the depth of betrayal cut him to the quick.  Every waking moment was now devoted to an obsessive jealousy; his listless sleep tormented by the horror of treacherous abandonment.  Was that a hybrid mastodon-space cruiser?!?  He fell awkwardly out of the tree, breaking the stem off the Bloom that he clutched feverishly as he landed in a puddle of mud.  Pookie, nose buried in her laptop as she walked through the park, didn't even look up.

   The impatient grunts from the dining room became more distressed, and were then followed a flurry of curses.  There was table smacking, then coffee cup throwing.  At length Pookie appeared in the doorway, but Wallace, sitting on the sofa, stared straight ahead.  His finger gently stirred the ice cube round and round in his whiskey.
   â€œI'm sorry,” Pookie started.  They had barely spoken since this whole thing began, and the breech of silence seemed like a fresh betrayal.  Wallace just stared, and stirred.
   â€œIt's just....  this thing.  Work.... you know.  I just....” she rolled her eyes to the ceiling and did a little frustrated jump that Wallace would have once labelled as cute.  Now a tear actually rolled down her cheek.  “Sometimes I just wish....”  And then she stopped.  Wallace stopped stirring, but still he stared, silent.  Pookie smacked the wall and smiled at him, disappearing again into the dining room.  “Ah ha!” she called triumphantly as the keys on the laptop started clicking furiously once more.
   Wallace started stirring once again.

   The rain had stopped, but the wind still buffeted the city with intense gusts.  Pookie entered the lobby of the building, while Wallace rolled off the top of the cab before it drove away.  He reached into his pocket, past the clump of pink rose petals, to grab his phone.  Summoning the pet-tracking app, he was able to track Pookie's progress through the building.  She was heading upward, ascending.  Wallace squinted into the night.  The building was probably thirty stories high.  He considered following her inside, but there was probably a door code, or a video feed of the lobby available to the building residents, or both.  He didn't want to be seen.  What was she doing here?  Who was she meeting?
   Wallace resolved to scale the building.  It was slick, and windy, but a stack of balconies provided ready grips for his gangly limbs to reach.  He supposed he would spy in through the window, like a wraith in the night.  Higher and higher he climbed, and the intensity of the wind grew.  He checked his phone at the twelfth storey, and she was at least on the seventeenth.  He inched higher, wind whipping at his face, a cold numbness stinging his hands.  But on he went.
   Seventeen.  But she was now somewhere above twenty-four.  On he climbed, though the wind howled in defiance of his plans.  Once he slipped, except for the fingertips of his left hand: fresh from the petals of his pocket those fingers clung with the desperate strength of the fear of loss.  He was an empty shell now, not appearing like a wraith in the darkness but actually being one: a soulless phantom on the fringe of worldly existence, haunting what was lost to him forever.  His love.  His game.  His life.  The petals were a remnant of an empty promise: he understood that now.  Now there was nothing left but the formalities of seeing this thing through to its obvious conclusion.
   Twenty-eight.  She was no more than three stories above, which Wallace reckoned put her on the roof.  The wind tore at his coat like the flag of a fallen soldier, waving a tattered vigil over a hopeless cause.  Through its ferocious gusts he now heard the screaming rants.  “F...ing insanity!  G.. d... f...ing ....project!  ......all utt... crap!”
   Wallace looked up from the rung to which he desperately clung, and saw his Pookie lit like a banshee in the moonlight on the roof's edge.  She was waving the laptop at the sky like a false idol before the reckoning.  And he suddenly knew what she was about; what her creative impulse was compelling her to do.  He wanted to call out to her, to stop her, but the shrieking wind stole the breath from his chest.  All he could do was feebly lift an arm towards her and think the words that he somehow heard her say: “It would never have worked out anyway.”
   And then Pookie tossed the laptop into the teeth of the gale, and it floated serenely away on a cushion of air.  All was released now.  Wallace knew, in his heart, that it was either her or the game, and he was suddenly happy, in an altruistic way, that she had sacrificed the game instead of herself.  All was forgiven now, and balance was restored to the world.  The source of discord in everyone's life was now swallowed by the fearsome wrath of nature.  He reached down with his frozen hand and grabbed a fistful of petals from his pocket, raising them to toast the inner strength of his one true love.
   And then the winds shifted violently, and the laptop came flying back to smack him in the face.  And the petals of the Bloom of promise were scattered like snowflakes over a cold, cruel world.

> ASK JESTERINO for a GIN and TONIC;

+1.

As for the map, I'm pretty sure the only one was burned in our assault on the castle (as explained in the OP).  My understanding is that a hero will go off and explore, and come back and fill in the map for us.  Since this Lancelot guy seems to check out, I guess it might as well be him and his posse.  So...

I agree with Ghost. As soon as we decide to kill peasants we can still hire someone else

> HIRE LANCELOT and order him to SEND a DELEGATION to EXPLORE

+1

Well, I'm not making any promises here... Although, really I might as well since breaking those promises would be in keeping with the theme.  So, sure, why not: I promise to have something written up in the next two days!  Probably.  I hope. 

>ASK JESTER to FIND OUT about the BACKGROUND of Sir Lancelot.

+1.  There seemed to be other candidates for the position of hero: let's find out about this Lancelot guy before we agree to pay him 1/4 of our income.