THE FIRST GENERATION
Or: The Inglorious Reign of Earl Waltheof the Egomaniac
(With lots of shiny pictures)
The year 1066 of our savior Jesus Christ. All is well in Christendom. The amount of decapitations per capita remains at steady 20. Due to some liberal and effiminate law changes recently, the rest are hanged these days.
At the heart of Christendom stands the stalwart defender of our one true faith, the Holy Roman Empire. MY EMPIRE! Well...sort of...
I have recently heard how good fish is for your health, so I migrated to these islands, which would totally be mine if there weren't, like, umpteen different lords claiming the same. They are all pretenders, of course.
This is mine, at least. The biggest and the most beautiful: the kingdom of England.
OK, so there is this moustache-for-brains called Harold who claims to be sovereign of all England. He hasn't liked me since I told him to pull another one. Pfft, who does he think he is? Just because he can raise 100 times more men at arms than I can doesn't mean he is any better than me.
Well anyway, I'm letting Harold to play king and concentrate on the big lines from behind the scenes, namely the county of Northampton. At least that's still mine.
That is, if that stupid Harold managed to get his little army together and drive out these weirdly speaking men who came in those dragon boats and stink like fish. And they seem to breed like fish too.
Then there is this megalomaniac emo-hairstyle duke who thinks he should be the next sovereign of all England. And without asking my opinion either! Can you believe it?! The nerve!
This is me: the real brain behind every great scheme that my underlings manage to foil. People say I'm wrothful, slothful and gluttonous. Well, I say they can rot in my dungeon while I eat cake in front of their cell door and then go take a nap. Bloody peasants.
Speaking of peasants, they are not paying me enough taxes. It's time to change that.
Then I send this hunchbacked whispering guy to an independent county in Wales. His mission there is to make the local count understand that the county, in fact, belongs to me and not him. I have a long Welsh heritage, after all. WIw wcanw wspeakw wtheirw wsillyw wtonguew wveryw wfluentw wlikew wbecausew wofw witw wsow witw wmustw wbew wtruew.
While he is out there and the rest of his council colleagues have been assigned jobs too, I can finally concentrate on using my charming nature on the opposite sex. So I find this rich heiress from France and propose we'll get married.
Personally I think she is annoying and ugly, but I like her rich and generous father.
While I'm busy getting laid, Harold is losing my army to the emo-lad in South.
He desperately calls me to save the day, which I of course again accept to do, but this time it comes with great personal cost.
Poor me. Can I get some attention here while I'm recovering? Can I? Huh? Can I?
Ugh, what's that horrible stench? It smells like ages old herring! Oh, right, stupid Harold lost half of the Northern part of the kingdom to the mead men, which actually doesn't surprise me anymore at all.
I'm convinced this fundy is to blame. I never liked him anyway.
Blessings and glory! I have a heir!
And on the top of that, a cool scar I can exploit in my attempts of making more of them! Life is good!