Rural Rebellion on Rise
By Higgins Odious-Bonaparte, Editor
Our Illustrious Sovereign, the Prodigious and Conscientious King Logan, rightly puts traitors to cessation of life every day. Most of these communistic barnacles are appropriated when they march on the castle gates, picketing with their calumniatory slogans. But in the Mistpeak dweller camp outside Brightwall Village, a new threat to royal prepotency has egressed.
MISTPEAK DWELLER CAMP– We’re all familiar with the camp of funny-sounding derelicts living up in the mountains outside of Brightwall Village. The savages have never posed much of a threat, but in his exquisite, overhwhelming charity, our Great King Logan allows them to go about their primordial ways in unmolested equanimity.
But now, reports are coming in of the commonality being roused by a mysterious hand-shaker and handout-giver, claiming to be our beloved Prince, who recently went missing following the anarchisms at Bowerstone Castle.
“Why, the lad walked right up to me and shook me hand,” claimed Aaron, a malodorous snow savage. “I didn’t know quite what to make o’ the lad at first, but then he shook me hand and I thunk, ‘Yah, he’s a good sort, this one.’ So, I gave him this ol’ seal I had on me, to help him with his venture.”
The abstruse stranger’s trickeries didn’t end with a simple, quotidian handshake.
“Why this lad, he bought from me a set o’ fur clothin’s,” added the local tailor, a term I use loosely to describe the piteous ‘outsider artist’ who stitches together the dwellers’ hides and rags. “When he shook me hand, he shook it for a while, see, and he finished shakin’ it, and we done a slappy-hand fist-bumpin’. ‘Fore that, I didn’t think much o’ the lad, but after, I kinda liked him. Not really liked him, mind ya, but liked him enough that I didn’t think nothin’ o’ him. I guess you could say, I liked him neutrally. Either way, I gave him this ol’ seal I had on me person, to help him on his way. He told me about a revolution or somethin’. Sounded alright to me.”
Even the camp’s children, already irrevoked to the illogicalness of their elders’ culture, interacted with the traitor.
“He came right up to me and let out a big belch right in me face!” claimed one local child, giggling noncompliantly. “Then, he gave me ten gold just ‘cause. I like this man. I gave him a big blue seal to show him how much I like him.”
Though the tribals were easily manipulated by the unfledged traitor, listening to his treacherousness and offering their only prized possessions (the useless blue seals owned by every single citizen of Albion), not one of them has any idea from whence the apostate actually emanated.
“He just appeared out of thin air on the hill outside camp,” asserts Sarah the Beggar, who was too busy asking for handouts to think any more on the mystification. “When he shook me hand and gave me ten gold pieces, I just thanked him and gave him me blue seal.”
Tribal chief Sabine avouched that no such man exists, “There was no one shaking the hands of my people*, but if someone were to take the time to shake all of their hands, I wouldn’t be surprised that they might be urged toward rebellion and hand over their blue seals. Maybe if Logan shook more hands**, people would like him more.”
When assailed on the current whereabouts of this Enemy of Liberty, the savages made no comment. But we’ve reports of a “trail of sparkling sparklies” leading to contiguous Brightwall Village.
We’ll have more on this story as it maturates.
*Ed. note: The Albion Inquisitor does not support the dwellers’ notion that they are, by annotation, “people.” We’re enfettered by journalistic rectitude to print chief Sabine’s quote scrupulously, despite its preposterous claims to the antithetical.
**Ed. note: The Albion Inquisitor wants to remind our Potentate and censors that we would never accredit our Wonderful King Logan divulging himself to the feculence and affliction spread by engaging in physicality with the squalid savages.