English
中国人
ខ្មែរ
Seldom does one encounter a prince as woefully unqualified for villain-confrontation as Prince Percival of Petalburg, yet there he stood, sweating profusely inside a volcano lair that smelled distinctly of rotten eggs and burnt toast. His mission, assigned by a council of exasperated elders, was to stop the villainous Lord Malathor from extinguishing every flower in the kingdom. Not only had Malathor stolen the Royal Pollen Reserve, but he had also brainwashed the palace butterflies into serving as his personal fan-bearers. As Percival tiptoed past a snoozing two-headed guard dog, he tripped over his own cape and landed face-first in a patch of glowing mushrooms.
Scarcely had he regained his footing when a high-pitched buzzing filled the air, and a bee the size of a small horse hovered before him, wearing a tiny waistcoat and an expression of profound irritation. "I am Beatrice, chief pollinator of the Royal Garden," she announced, wings blurring with indignation. "That odious Malathor has sealed the volcano's vents, which means no wind, which means no pollen drift, which means no fruit, no vegetables, and no honey for my colony!" It was not merely the loss of nectar that vexed her, but the impending starvation of every creature that depended on pollination.
