Written by Anonymous, edited by Arys, the new King of the North and Steppe.
The weather, as always, was cool in Fisdnar. Perfect for brewing ale. In fact, Fisdnar could make the best ale in all of Calradia, and could have become very wealthy by exporting it if it wasn't for Arys. First of all, he insisted on quick production and high alcohol content, ignoring silly things like flavour and drinkability, and secondly, he drank all of it.
Arys had just emerged from the second part of his regular routine, in which the first part involved him drinking all of the booze in the village and the second part was him sleeping it off. Tired and cranky and hurting, he crawled out of the manure pile he had passed out on and crawled to the nearest keg he could find. He smashed at the top of the wooden keg with a rock until it broke, then dunked his head directly in. Within three minutes, without him taking a breath, the keg was empty. To a seasoned veteran like Arys, this merely drove the pain away and gave him a mild glow. Perfect time to address the issues of his faction. After he emptied one more, of course.
He rallied all his members in usual way, by beating on a pig with a stick til all the other Free Peasants of Fisdnar assembled in the village commons. As they arrived from the fields or other various jobs Arys helped himself to another keg. 'Gotta get the Coopers to start building bigger kegs,' he thought to himself as he waited.
Once all the Free Peasants had arrived, he stood up on the now empty keg to address them. "Blow it out your ass!", he greeted them. "Now's the time we figure out our next political bullshit and all that crap. Gotta get the faction doing some shit and all, and quit pissin about!"
"Well," said Dorlando, "we have planted that new field. Cabbages are looking promising, should be some good cabbage soup come winter..."
"Shut the fuck up!" yelled Arys, "I'm thinking war and shit! My tunic here ain't got no bloodstains on it anymore!" He looked down at his patched and worn shirt. "Got pig shit on it, some vomit, and I don't know what the hell that it, but it ain't some vomit, and I don't know what the hell that is, but it ain't got no bloodstains!"
"Hmmm," said Froyo the Wizard, "Since Eques' invasion of the desert, and the rumours of Bryggan's death..."
"Bryggan died! No! No! NO! He was my dearest friend," Arys wailed as tears pooled in his eyes. "I helped him take Shulus, and he helped me take Fisdnar way back in the old days, against the evil AI. Oh, the drunk up we had after those battles. After the Shulus battle he knighted me, right after he had knighted the scullery maid. He was the greatest of men, and I knew he would go on to great th...thi...things (and here Arys broke down in a full wave of tears). Wh..when he became High King he assured me Fisdnar would remain independent. AND DO YOU KNOW WHY!" he suddenly roared, "IT WAS CUZ WE WERE THE BEST OF FRIENDS!"
"Uh, sir," interrupted Bonchastrone, "Bryggan didn't actually die. He just lost his memory for a bit. He's back in the tundra."
"What the fuck!" screamed Arys, "that little shit! He always was a shithead. Riding on the coat tails of fucking everyone else just to get ahead. I never did like him. Coming to me- me! The fucking Commander of Fisdnar! Offering me protection! I could have crushed his stupid little kingdom like a gnat! If I wasn't so bloody benevolent and kind I would have squashed him.
"Well, fuck him! I declare myself... I, um... hold on." Arys turned to the side to spew a horribly grey coloured vomit. Once he had emptied his stomach, followed by a few dry heaves, he continued, "I declare myself Lord High King and Emporer and Khan and Grand Vizier of the Tundra and the Steppes. It's mine, and always has been, and always will."
He glared at his men until they felt uncomfortable enough to pretend to cheer. After he was satisfied with enough of the nonchalant huzzahs of his men he went on.
"First of all," he said, "I need a coronation ceremony. I need a crown, and I need a ceremony, and I need a crown. Oh, and a ceremony. And the one that I trust most, the one that is most reliant, will bear the crown to me. Which reminds me, I need a crown. And probably a ceromony."
His men all stood tall, each vying for the honourable position of being the crown bearer. Each knew in his heart that he had done much for their drunken leader, and was worthy of the position. But they also knew that each of their comrades had done as much- had sacrificed as much for their beloved Arys. The nobility these peasants had shown following their leader far surpassed that of the lords of all the other factions.
Arys glared at them, weighing each one up in his mind. Finally, after several more guzzles from his ale, his eyes softened and he made a decision. "My horse, Betsy," he mumbled, tears once again coming to his eyes, "my dear, dear Betsy. She has always been there for me. I want my sweet little Betsy to bring me the crown."
His followers should have been stunned, but these gents were used to their leader's erratic ways. With a collective sigh, they dispersed. Bruvantas went to the village coffers and melted down some gold to make a crown, El Yanqui found some clean cloth for a coronation robe and died it burgundy with some wine Arys had not found yet, and Frank the Tank went to go get Betsy.
But Betsey was not there. Look as he might, the swaybacked mare was nowhere to be found. Reluctantly he brought the news to Arys.
By that time Arys was past his coherent stage. When he heard the news, he exploded in anger, and took it out on poor Frank. He cussed and swore at Frank, throwing rocks at him, which Frank knew well enough to just stand still so none of the stones hit him. Once his rage had passed, Arys collapsed down in exhaustion on an anthill. The vicious little insects swarmed him, but he was past caring.
"It was Dutchy!" he growled, "All along I thought it was the Wardens, but he knew they liked LOTR so he tried to get me to attack them! The Silmarillion…. only Dutchy would borrow a copy from his EU friends and plant it as evidence! And they suspected I would crown myself King of the Tundra and the Steppes, and went and kidnapped Betsey. That is an act of war!!! I will do what that little shit Bryggan could never do, and kick them out of my steppes!"
"And the crowning ceremony?" Dorlando asked, "who will bear your crown?"
"I'll do it myself!"
The crowning ceremony was held in the tavern, the most majestic building in Fisdnar. For the Free Peasants of Fisdnar, the event was a success. Sure, when El Yanqui handed Arys the purple robe, Arys blew his nose with it, and when Arys went to crown himself he grabbed a swill bucket and placed it on his head rather than Bruvantas’ beautifully crafted crown, but these things were to be expected.
Once crowned with his swill bucket, and after a small cry when he thought of his poor kidnapped Betsy, Arys eyes grew steely, and he called out, "Summon my legions!"
"But it's nearly harvesting season," complained one of the peasants.
"Fuck you!" yelled Arys, "it's time for war!"
