Rain Over Alisaunder

 

The Story of a Nation

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

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The Accidental Ruler

 

There once was a humble pig farmer, who was born to a royal family. Long estranged from members of his family, he lived far away from the castle and grounds. His one token of wealth was a large land grant, left to him by his deceased parents, many years before.

 

The rulers of Alisaunder were traditionally tyrannical and despotic people, who abused their subjects and crushed their personal enemies and rivals. The slow wit and the simple, honest nature of young Watkin deSandersted, placed him at odds with his grasping and treacherous relatives. They were content, however, that his father's estate placed him far away from the Baronial Court. Further, his lack of ambition and his feeble mindedness, deemed that he was no threat to their continued power and authority.

 

Baron Devilis deSandersted was a debouched, evil and twisted man. To know him was to despise him and to live under his rule was to know back breaking labor, to pay his confiscatory taxes.

 

There was no hope for the humble people of Alisaunder. Their misery was a way of life and the nation was filled with despair, due to harsh and oppressive laws. As the nation grew and the ruling family became more powerful, the people were put down ever more painfully, so that their careworn, hardened faces rarely looked up from the parched ground, that they were forced to till.

 

On a warm and sunny day, in the Spring of 2006, fortune changed and a rather strange incident occurred. The hated Baron Devilis deSandersted, the evil Baroness and every member of the Baronial Entourage were gunned down, while participating in a ceremonial hunt. No witnesses came forward, but it appeared to be the beginning of a cruel blood purge and the start of a violent revolution, that could lay waste to the entire nation.

 

The Prime Minister of Alisaunder was forced to find a new ruler that would aid the suffering people and allow them to find some semblance of happiness and prosperity. Knowing that he had to quell any possibility of a rebellion, he needed to find a candidate with a legitimate claim to the throne, as well as someone who's name, or perceived reputation, might strike fear into the populace and force them to obey the law.

 

He remembered that there was one remaining heir, on a pig farm, far away. It was a man that bore the hated name of deSandersted. If this man was anything like his uncle, the Baron, he might be able to crush a rebellion and easily murder any of the conspirators that sought new power. He had not taken to heart, the harsh words that the old Baron had, for his nephew. He thought to himself, "After all; how stupid could this man actually be?" The Minister sent for a battalion of soldiers and saddled his horse. deMorte was resolute that he would take this simpleton pig farmer to the castle, whether he wanted to go or not.

 

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On the afternoon of June 30th, 2006 a dark and heavy sky threatened a new storm. Moisture hung in the air, over an impoverished provincial town and Watkin deSandersted was tending his livestock, knee deep in mud. When droplets of rain began to pelt his face, he looked upward and noticed soldiers marching over a nearby hillside.

 

The young Watkin had since grown old, bearded and grey. His family, his pigs and his farm were now his entire life and his only true concerns. His relation to the ruling family was not known to his acquaintances and long ago, he had sought to put this out of his own mind, as well. He had always been a hard working man, of simple tastes and had no desire for wealth, power or prestige. He was happy with his life and had no desire for change.

 

The marching soldiers made a terrific sound and the townspeople were alarmed. The old Baron was fond of taking people away, in the dead of night, but this was high noon. What could be happening? Curiosity triumphed over their fear and throngs of people crowded to see why the soldiers had arrived. Neighbors from adjoining farms came out of their homes and barns to witness the commotion. More and more people gathered and the number of onlookers grew to over two hundred men women and children.

 

A single horseman rode in front of the soldiers and briskly trotted up to Watkin, looming over him. The immense horse stood directly in his path. The horseman was an older, white haired man, who sat rigidly in the saddle with a military bearing. He was clad in an orange brocade uniform and his tunic was covered with medals and ribbons. The townspeople jockeyed for position to hear what this uniformed man had to say.

 

The man withdrew a document, from his breast pocket and introduced himself, in a loud and booming manner. "Subjects of Alisaunder, hear my voice! I am Prime Minister deMorte, of the City State of Alisaunder". He continued, "The man standing before me, is the last remaining heir to the deSandersted ruling family and he must come with me. Only he can save you from almost certain ruin. The man you know as Watkin is the Baron's only nephew. Baron Devilis deSandersted is now dead and by the power of my office, I declare and decree that this man is the rightful ruler to all that is Alisaunder".

 

Watkin asked, "What if I should refuse to leave my home?" deMorte replied, "Then those that killed your uncle will eventually seek you out. The dynasty will fall; your wife and any remaining members of your family will be hunted down and killed. Rebels will seize power and anarchy will threaten to burn this nation's infrastructure to the ground".

 

He continued, "Without a government in place to protect the countryside, your friends and neighbors will be terrorized by roaming bands of highwaymen, rogues and vandals. The nation of Alisaunder could cease to exist and any hostile nation could easily take control, making slaves of all these people. You must come with me".

 

The crowds of surrounding people began to murmur amongst themselves. They could not help, but to be shaken and concerned, regarding this warning. They looked desperately at Watkin and a few began to shout, "Save us Watty! Don't let this happen to us!" Others joined in and before long, almost two hundred persons all begged and cried out for him to stave off this prophecy of doom. They were fearful for their lives, their families and their homes. They urged their old friend to go.

 

Watkin, visibly irritated, knew what he had to do. He slowly and silently kicked the mud from his boots and saddled his horses. He did not want to leave. He sent for his family and with his beautiful wife and daughter riding by his side, he bade a sad farewell to his home and lands. He rode off with the Minister and soldiers and into the coming storm. A reluctant ruler had risen from the mud to claim an unwanted throne.

 

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End of Chapter One

May I just comment that the color green text hurts my eyes

Obi-Wan, is that you?

Rain Over Alisaunder

 

The Story of a Nation

 

Chapter Two

 

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A Scribble Behind The Wall

 

"Will this rain ever cease?" Watkin had begun muttering to himself, during this long and difficult journey. He pulled his oil cloth rain slicker a bit tighter and with a sigh, he carried on.

 

The driving rain carved deep gullies into the dirt roads and the rising mud made their passage nearly impossible. Their convoy had traveled so far and yet they had only crossed the halfway point, to their destination.

 

The ride to Edinburgh was hard. Infrastructure within Alisaunder was in such a state, that there was not a single paved road, in the entire nation. Watkin had heard stories of other nations that utilized paved roads and even self propelled vehicles that traversed effortlessly along wondrous futuristic highways. These vehicles were called automobiles.

 

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Watkin heard that riders of such vehicles would remain safe and dry from the elements and could endure travel for much longer periods and greater distances. Could such a thing really be true? Watkin yearned for such a day when resources, such as these, could grace his own humble nation. For now, he simply grumbled as he endured the rain, the mud and the smell of the horses. This was not a good day.

 

This long ride seemed to go on forever and had done much to show Watkin that his nation was a backward, primitive and dirty place.

 

The soldiers had long been dispatched to maintain a nearby border. A small armed cavalry escort was all that remained. After two days the storm was still well upon them, showing no signs of stopping. It seemed that there was no place, on person or baggage, that could escape the seeping water of the storm. The rain sought out every pocket, every jacket lining and filled the boots of every rider. It was a long and miserable ride.

 

The blackness of night, once again, had descended upon the convoy and a hasty camp was pitched in a miserable muddy clearing, by the roadside. All through the night far away screams, explosions and gunfire pierced the sound of the driving rain. The beginning stages of anarchy may well have begun. The more of his nation that he saw, the more depressed and discouraged Watkin came to be. In what was to become a habit, he again muttered to himself, "How could I be so cursed, as to become the ruler of this dreadful and terrifying place?"

 

On the beautiful sunlit morning, of the third day, our troop neared their destination. The warm sun did much to dry their soaked clothing and the birds sang a cheery song of welcome. In contrast to the rest of the trip, all finally appeared right with the world. "What a beautiful day", Watkin said to himself.

 

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Edinburgh is the capital city of Alisaunder. This once great and prosperous city had seemingly fallen into decay. It's streets were littered with all manner of filth and the city walls, with the graffiti of angry dissidents. What a tremendous disappointment, after such a long journey. Watkin grew homesick for his pig farm. Edinburgh was no longer the bright and sparkling city of his youth. It seems that under his uncle's care, the beautiful city of Edinburgh had become a dreary, soiled and despondent place. Hardly what a new visitor would expect, of any capital city.

 

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As they arrived, the uniformed soldiers and the strange newcomers drew some attention from the city dwellers. Shutters of roadside houses began to open and curious faces stared down, with disapproval, from high windows and rooftops.

 

Suddenly and without warning, the contents of bedpans, rotten vegetables and garbage began to rain down onto the procession, from all directions. Jeers and foul language followed, as the townspeople were obviously displeased with anyone resembling the military or authority in any form. Watkin and the soldiers reigned in their startled horses and set them on a gallop toward the castle. What began as a beautiful morning, was changing rather quickly.

 

In a startling contrast to the city, Edinburgh Castle was truly a beautiful sight. Both the castle and grounds were clean and impeccably maintained. The castle was perched high on a well manicured hilltop, well apart from the stark poverty and unsanitary conditions of the city, below.

 

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Edinburgh Castle is an immense stone structure; fortified with many walls and parapets. Watkin found the interior to be beautifully adorned with rich, colorful tapestries, thick carpets and every luxurious appointment and ornamentation that one could ever conceive. The old Baron lived in opulent splendor.

 

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deMorte snapped his fingers and an eager footman took Watkin and his family to a large apartment, deep within the castle. The footman said, "These are to be your quarters", and he took their few bags inside.

 

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A large official looking hall, sprawled out before them. It was long and cavernous, like a large tunnel. A monstrously long conference table, with many stiff backed chairs, dominated the room and seemed to stretch onward, toward the rear of the room. At the far end of the long conference table, an immense and richly carved writing desk was perched on a small dias, so that it rose slightly above the level of the table. Someone seated at this desk would look downward onto the conference table and onto anyone entering through that door.

 

Large overstuffed sofas and chairs lined the long walls. Paintings of family members, shields and implements of war hung on every wall. Near the entrance of this room were doors and passageways that led to several bedrooms. On the far end of the long room was a single door, that opened onto to the old Baron's office. The walls and ceilings were covered with ornately carved designs. The wooden paneled walls and wide planked floors were dark, shiny and richly stained. The upholstered sofas and chairs were beautiful, but were so large and overstuffed, as to dwarf anyone that cared to sit.

 

This room was engineered to make the entrant feel both very impressed and extremely small, at the same time. It was built to be room of a negotiator, or an interrogator. "What kind of business might have been conducted here", Watkin thought. The thought of this room's purpose made him very uncomfortable.

 

The new Baron and his beautiful wife, were shown to the largest bedroom and their pretty daughter to another. As the new Baron and his family settled, a rustling sound was heard behind a far wall, of the large bedroom. "Fear not, my dear", Watkin said to his wife, "it is most likely just a rat. All large castles have them".

 

But, the sound did not dissipate. It fact it became louder and if this was the sound of rats, it was certainly a large company of them. Watkin began to investigate and found that the sound was loudest, behind a large bookcase. He placed his ear against the large dusty volumes of books and listened intently. Looking down he noticed worn scratches on the floorboards, as if the entire bookcase were a large swinging door. Watkin grasped one leading edge of the bookcase and began to pull, outward. The rustling sounds suddenly ceased. Behind the bookcase was a little room. In the little room was a little man.

 

This little man stood no more than five feet, in height and was disheveled, in appearance. His hair stood on end and he had not shaved for several days. He looked to have slept in his clothes. The man was drawn, gaunt and pale, as though he had gone without food. He was very agitated. He seemed shocked and embarrassed, at having been found, as he was nervously shuffling papers into little bins. Watkin demanded, "Who are you and what do you mean, by hiding in my family's bedchamber?" Watkin was incredulous, especially when it came to the safety of his family.

 

"My name is Scribble", the man nervously said, "Scribble the Scribe". Watkin asked, "What is this place and why do you hide here?" Scribble replied, "This place is the Baron's own secret room for records and things best kept away from prying eyes. I have been hiding here and in other places, since I misspelled the Baron's name, while inscribing it for The Great Oracle".

 

"The Baron discharged me and told me to leave the grounds. In truth I had no place to go and hid here, when the Baron was away. There are many secret rooms and scraps, from the kitchens, sustained my hunger. Please do not summon the guards, for I mean no harm. The Baron will be furious, to have found me here. It could mean my very life!"

 

Watkin chuckled and calmed the little man, "Be not afraid dear Scribble, for your gentle manner has endeared me to you. The old Baron is dead and I have taken his place. Please know that the guards will not be summoned, for I could most certainly use the friendship of a fellow outsider, in this strange and unfriendly place. As you appear to be hungry, let us go to the kitchens. There we may eat, drink and come to know each other better. Before we go, however, I have some questions. Chiefly, what is this Great Oracle, of which you speak and why does one inscribe things within it?"

 

Scribble held up one finger and disappeared within the little room. He shortly reappeared with an object that looked to be a rectangular tablet of some kind. Though it bore the color and sheen of metal, it was light of weight and looked very fragile; as though if it were dropped to the floor, it might shatter into many pieces. As Scribble pressed a switch, an audible "click" was heard and he opened this tablet, like a book.

 

Inside of the tablet were no leaves, as a book might have, but only two halves like the interior of a clam shell. One interior side bore a shining glass surface while the other half contained rows and rows of square buttons with letters and symbols carved into each.

 

As the tablet opened, a blue light with no flame, winked on at the base of the glass surface. The letters "PWR" were painted onto the surface, near the strange blue light.

 

Watkin gasped and did not know what to think of this object. He had never seen anything like it, before. No doubt, it was powered by some force unknown to him and it's purpose must be equally strange. It gave off a strange hum, like the purr of a cat.

 

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Watkin shuddered at the sight of the Oracle and said, "What is this thing and how did it come to be in your possession?" Scribble held the Oracle at arms length, to Watkin and said, "This is your property, my master". He continued, "The old Baron was struck with a family illness for many years. As his hands grew more feeble, he required me to write all manner of documents for him. This Oracle sometimes functions as a writing tablet. It is a strange and wondrous tool. It is the greatest secret of your entire nation. Had the old Baron not been ill, I would not have known of it. He forbade me to speak of it to anyone. I dare say that now, you and I are the only persons with knowledge of this thing. The old Baron instructed me, as to how the Oracle may be used. As the new Baron, I will instruct you. Come, my friend, we have much to discuss.

 

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End of Chapter Two

I think Baron just loves to type.

 

Also, Hi Baron. I am over here too