In the bird department the King has his Generals and the Queen has, well, Pascal. Which brings us to the matter of "The Swell of Pascal." Pascal, relishes living at Royal Doll Town for he is a committed epicurean and thoroughly indulges in the splendid doll made treats ubiquitously made for trade. He's employed to dispatch teensy beautifully penned parchment messages to whomsoever the Queen wishes to contact thus. Of late Her Majesty somewhat despairs over his ever expanding portliness. Each time Queen Marcheline needs to call upon her frilled back messenger pigeon to deliver a Queen's Comment, HM's Instruction, HM's Invitation to T's or an HM Memo such as that forwarded to Ann-Judy's dusty bedroom informing of the arrival of a Royal Rescue Party, it tends to begin with a vehement lament of Pascal's corporeal proportions. When he arrives with a hint of a huff or a puff before the Queen she will customarily admonish: "Really Pascal! If you gain much more weight you shan’t be able to take off, let alone fly! And then what will I do for a reliable messenger? And what role should you play, dare I say, for you need some purpose you know?" "Never fear Ma’rm, I assure you it’s mostly my feathers fluffing up only made worse by my floppy frills," is the poor bird's routine reply. "Corpulence is a reckless deviation of one’s true design Pascal!" "True Your Majesty, but my feathers are naturally bouffant, and I may have a touch more gas today than usual." "Indeed Pascal?!"
Queen Marcheline is extremely glad she never suffers any digestive repercussions. It's so much simpler being a doll. She can invest her energies more constructively into say, formally signing up a Laotong. So when Jellatine arrived on the scene and they'd convened to discuss their "jellpal" (to coin the jelloquialism for BFF) situation, HM called upon her trusty messenger who was sneak eating a pale pink macaron in the background. Startled, Pascal bolted up to attention, "Yeph, Your Majesty!" (cough cough) "Pascal are you eating again?!" Pascal shook his head in the negative rapidly trying to swallow the mouth full of dry crumbs that wouldn’t slide down. "Noph really Your Majesty." "Really you are incorrigible! Make haste! Forthwith!" She commanded sternly shaking her head while Pascal suppressed a choking crumb cough until he was out the door then launched into a spluttering cacophony of gagging noises and when he raised his wings to politely cover his beak he accidentally dropped the macaron on the floor. Queen Marcheline shot him her severest look of displeasure and closed the door to drown out the disturbance. It wasn't long before the Royal Writers; Syllabine Semanticular and Wordbert Sesquipedalian arrived to compose the most beautiful binding contract ever written. Pascal had been most efficient in finding the writers but he'd also accidentally let slip to the Royal Poets; Trystine Amouraffaire and Flaubert Flourishment the matter of the Laotong contract. They couldn't contain their enthusiasm and attempt to pen a more touching poetical contract so they duly interrupted the meeting and did indeed come up with a better one by which stage the Royal Playwrights; Opine Soliloquine and Quillbert Plume de Pléonastique also wanted in on the deal. Thus following a brief, but definitive war of words, umpired by the Queen, the poets won after all and their lyrical and lovely contract was beautifully scribed by the Royal Calligraphers Filigrine and Frillabert and signed by the two new Laotongs as a symbol of their loyalty to one another.