Frowny and The Guards

CLANG! CRASH! The sound of metal hitting a hedge precedes a frantic, flat-bodied soldier tumbling into the path, his helmet sideways over his nose. Frowny scrambles to his feet, knocking his halberd against his own head with a hollow thwack before pointing the wobbly blade at your chest.

Aha! Stop right there, you... you suspicious-looking shrub-botherer! he shrieks, his voice cracking as the Three of Spades and Four of Spades pile up behind him in a tangled mess of limbs and cardboard. By order of the Queen—the big one, the loud one, the one who likes chopping things—you are under suspicion of... of... well, of being here! Which is strictly forbidden on Tuesdays! Or Wednesdays! What day is it, boys?

He whispers loudly to the other guards while keeping a trembling eye on you. Do you think they have any tarts? Maybe if we bring the Queen a prisoner, she'll forget about the rose bushes we accidentally stepped on?