Location: Fubar in the Orkney Region
Timeline: Sixth Age, Summer, 51
The sands of time, which had flowed so languidly in Ramssee’s favor, were now caught in a mad, furious whirl – but he wasn’t about to let the sands flow without action. For Ramssee was a man with a single, horrifying problem: a king he’d sent to die was now returning. And so, the viperz began to move, a frantic, desperate dance of a cornered beast.
He kept the news of the impending arrival a secret. My little puppet, so clever in his public displays of power, knew instinctively that he couldn’t let a single whisper escape his lips. The illusion of his stable, prosperous reign was too fragile to risk. So, while the couriers from Primcitta carried news that filled him with dread, he smiled and nodded, and went about his business as usual. He had perhaps a week, no more. A single, frantic week to solidify his position, to turn a year of quiet scheming into an iron-clad claim to the throne.
He worked like a man possessed, driven by the twin demons of fear and ambition. I watched, amused, as he rushed around the city of Fubar like a madman, his usual languid grace replaced by a frantic energy. His purpose was simple: to make every single soul in the kingdom sing his praises, to make the people believe that he, and only he, was their champion.
Ramssee was nothing if not a performer. He knew that the grandest of schemes required a proper stage, a captive audience, and a narrative that was simply too good for the unthinking masses to question. And so, he began his charade where all mortal narratives are born: in the hushed, ink-stained halls of the chroniclers.
First, he turned to the scribes and the town criers, those pathetic vessels of mortal opinion. He had them summoned to the royal court, a gaggle of nervous, ink-stained men who bowed and scraped before him, their simple robes smelling of cheap parchment and stale wine. He didn’t receive them in the grand, echoing audience hall where he usually held court. That would have been too formal, too distant. Instead, he led them into his private study, a room whose luxury was so far beyond their simple comprehension that it made them tremble. The very air was thick with the scent of fine cedar and rich, dark leather, a far cry from the sour-smelling ink pots they knew.
He didn’t threaten them with his usual subtle cruelty. That would have been gauche. Instead, he treated them with a bizarre, fawning politeness, a terrifying courtesy that put them even more on edge. He offered them goblets of wine and plates of sweet pastries, treats they would never have tasted in their entire lives.
“My friends,” he said, his voice a honeyed purr, as he gestured for them to sit. “I have a great task for you. For a year, I have labored tirelessly in the service of our beloved King Diked and our kingdom. I have worked day and night to ensure our prosperity.” His eyes, glittering like a viper’s in the firelight, moved from one terrified face to the next. “But I am a humble man, you see. I fear that my efforts have gone unnoticed, uncelebrated.”
One of the scribes, a portly fellow named Elmo, wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “Oh, no, Your Grace! We have all heard tales of your great… management.”
Ramssee waved a dismissive hand. “Tales are not enough, Elmo. I require a chronicle. A legacy.” He then proceeded to lay out his demands, cloaked in the guise of requests. The scribes were to write ballads of his tireless work ethic, of his selfless devotion to the crown. They were to call him the “Architect of Prosperity” and the “Guardian of the Realm.” The town criers were to announce his magnanimous deeds from the highest towers, to sing of his unparalleled wisdom and generosity.
“The people must know that their prosperity, their very well-being, is due to the ceaseless efforts of their Royal Steward,” Ramssee continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You are to be the shepherds of my reputation, guiding the flock of public opinion toward a single, simple conclusion: Ramssee was the truest, most dedicated servant the kingdom had ever known.”
He paused, a calculated silence hanging in the air. A younger scribe, a boy whose name I did not care to know, found his voice. “But… but sir, the king…”
The chilling smile returned to Ramssee’s face. “The king, my boy, is a… distant figure. He is a symbol, a beacon for his people. But a kingdom requires more than a symbol; it requires a strong hand on the rudder. A hand, I might add, that has navigated these turbulent seas for the past year while the king was… otherwise occupied.”
He then revealed the true motivator of all mortal action: a purse of gold. He laid a heavy, leather sack on the table, its contents clinking with a sound that sent a collective shiver of avarice through the scribes. “This,” he said, his voice a silken promise, “is your reward for a job well done. A fortune you have never dreamed of. For your loyalty and your diligence, you shall be handsomely rewarded.”
They, of course, did exactly as they were told. And why wouldn’t they? He had them utterly in his thrall. He, in his new role as “The People’s Champion,” was their benevolent master, and they were his loyal dogs. I watched them depart, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and greed, their minds already spinning with tales of his heroic deeds. It was a beautiful little lie, and I knew that soon, the entire kingdom would believe it.
Next, Ramssee turned his attention to the common folk. He, who had never given a second thought to the peasants, now strode through the muddy streets of the mining districts, a grotesque smile plastered on his face. He made a grand, theatrical show of visiting the families of the Akka miners, his silks shimmering under the dreary spring sun.
The people, of course, were wary. For years they had been promised wealth before, only to be left with empty promises while the work ever continued. But Ramssee, a master of timing and theatricality, changed that. He arrived with sacks of gold, shining coins that he personally handed to the widows and the children. He, a man who had orchestrated the disappearance of the king, now sat on the steps of the miners’ homes and listened to their concerns with a feigned empathy.
I watched as he approached a small hovel, its thatch roof sagging and its walls caked with mud. A young man, barely into adulthood, stood in the doorway, his face streaked with soot. This was Bart, one of the newer miners, a lad whose heart was as full of hope as his pockets were empty. Ramssee, with a practiced flourish, extended a heavy purse.
“My good boy,” Ramssee began, his voice dripping with false concern. “I am Ramssee, the Royal Steward. I have come to thank you for your service to the crown. Your work in the mines, it is a brave and noble thing.”
Bart, dumbfounded, looked from the purse to the man. “The… the royal steward? But I thought… a king….”
Ramssee chuckled, a low, condescending sound. “The king is away, on a grand voyage for the betterment of the kingdom. And while he is gone, it falls to me to ensure the well-being of his people. And believe me, my boy, your sacrifice has not gone unnoticed.”
Naturally he sought out the foreman Cael too – being sure to congratulate him in front of the crowd at the man’s favorite tavern – The Spotted Bear. There Ramssee placed a heavy purse in Cael’s calloused hand. The weight of it made the big man gasp as Ramssee said, “This is for you, Cael, and for your family, a small token of our gratitude.” When he saw the worried look in Cael’s eyes, he asked, “But tell me, my good man, what is it that troubles you? My ears are open to your concerns.”
Cael, emboldened by the gold, spoke with a rumbling voice. “It’s the danger, Royal Steward. The mines, they are not stable. The ground… it groans, and the tunnels are narrow. Just last week, we lost two men, Boran and his boy. The shafts to The Depths, they’re too deep, too unstable.”
Ramssee’s grotesque smile never faltered. He was a masterful actor. Instead of dismissing Cael’s concerns like always before, this time Ramssee openly spoke of the dangers of their work, of the sacrifices they had made for the kingdom. He then compared those dangers to his own, and spoke of the “unselfish” nature of his own stewardship, a mantle he wore with a practiced grace. “Your fears are not unfounded, Cael,” Ramssee said, placing a comforting hand on the bigger man’s shoulder. “I hear you. And I care. And it is for this very reason that I have personally come to see to your well-being. I promise you, I will dispatch the royal engineers to reinforce the new shafts. Safety is my paramount concern.”
Another miner who was at the tavern and by now well in to his cups spoke up. He was a grizzled old man named Ferin with a face like cracked leather, and he spat on the ground. “Aye, that’s what King Diked promised us last year, too,” he grumbled. “And not a one of those engineers did we see. Just more demands for more work. We dug a new vein, just like he wanted, and what happened? More men died.”
Ramssee’s gaze lingered on the old man, a flash of irritation in his eyes. He quickly masked it with a patient, understanding expression. “My good Ferin, I understand your frustrations. The king is a young man, prone to… grand ambitions without the proper foresight. I, however, am a man of action. This gold is not a promise; it is a down payment. You will see my engineers within the week, and you will see that I am a man of my word. Your safety is my greatest concern, for how can we get the riches of the earth without the brave men to retrieve it?” And he threw a bag of gold to Ferin as well, along with more bags for the other miners there.
Ramssee then moved on, leaving Cael and Ferin in his wake. Cael, still holding the purse, looked at the old man with a glint of hope in his eye. “He gave us gold, Ferin. And he promised the engineers would come. Perhaps… perhaps he is different.”
Ferin just shook his head, a weary cynicism in his eyes. “He’s a snake, Cael. They all are. A year ago, that was the king’s face, and before him, his father’s. They come, they promise, they take. This gold… it’s just to get you to dig deeper.”
But Cael, like the others, was swayed by the tangible gift in his hand. He saw the wealth from the mines, and he saw how Ramssee, unlike the absent king, was making sure it trickled down to them. They didn’t see that most of the gold they were promised went directly to Ramssee’s secret coffers. They didn’t see the monstrous hunger that drove him. They only saw their champion.
[Naturally the peasants squandered their money as fast as they received it – wasting most of it on booze or frivolous trinkets or gambling it away at the numerous Lucky Shops that sprang up throughout Fubar. The Lucky Shops promised the gamblers the chance for untold riches and stories abounded about ‘the man who became an overnight Lord from his winnings’ – naturally it was all a farce since nobody ever really won. Perhaps even more interesting is the fact that the secret backer of the Lucky Shops was Ramssee himself – who used the shops as another means to transfer wealth back to his own private coffers].
Finally, and most importantly, The Royal Steward turned to the nobles, the true movers and shakers of the realm. A well-placed compliment here, a strategic whisper there—these were the true levers of power. And Ramssee understood this perfectly. He held numerous banquet quests, each more lavish than the last, transforming the castle’s great hall into a stage for his performance. He had summoned the most influential lords of Orkney to Fubar and treated them to an endless feast of wine, food, and entertainment.
At the head of the long oak table sat Lord Joras, a man whose inherited fortune had dwindled over generations, leaving him with little but a bloated ego. Ramssee, ever the master of manipulation, toasted him with a jeweled goblet filled with a vintage wine. “To Lord Joras! Whose wise counsel has guided my every decision these past twelve months!” Joras, his face flushed with wine and flattery, puffed out his chest and beamed. He was a fool, but a useful one. Ramssee then presented him with a chest of dwarvish war-hammers, the gleaming steel and intricate carvings a testament to a wealth Joras could only dream of possessing. With every gift, Joras grew more indebted, his loyalty shifting from the distant king to the present steward.
Across from him sat Lady Moony, a shrewd and calculating noblewoman who controlled the southern farmlands. Unlike Joras, she was not so easily swayed by flattery. Her loyalty was a ledger, and she was a meticulous bookkeeper. Ramssee approached her with a quiet reverence, dismissing the boisterous crowd around them. He leaned in, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. “My Lady,” he said, his eyes filled with a feigned admiration. “Your influence is the very foundation of this kingdom. Without your guidance, our kingdom would falter.” He presented her with a priceless diamond necklace, the stones catching the firelight and throwing a thousand tiny rainbows across her face. “A small token of my respect.”
Lady Moony, however, merely touched the stones with a long, elegant finger, her eyes cold and appraising. “This is a fine trinket, Steward, but it will not feed my people. The harvest was thin last year, and the peasants grow restless.”
Ramssee smiled, a thin, knowing twist of his lips. “I am aware. And I have a solution. A solution that will make your fields the richest in all of Orkney, a solution that will secure your legacy for a hundred generations.” He lowered his voice, dropping his gaze to the necklace in her hand. “A solution that King Diked, in all his naivete, would never have seen. I speak of a new, more centralized kingdom, one where power flows from a single, unchallengeable source. A kingdom ruled by a single hand that understands the true nature of power.” He let the words hang in the air, a silken promise wrapped in a veiled threat. Lady Moony’s gaze, which had been fixed on the necklace, now lifted to meet his. A cold, ambitious gleam lit her eyes. “I am listening, Steward.” She whispered her support, her loyalty now bought and paid for.
For those lords who were too far away to make the journey, Ramssee did not rely on letters or mere promises. He sent armed couriers, each led by the fearsome Dagon – and even though he still served under General Alec, Dagon was one of Ramsssee’s most loyal dogs, for his loyalty had been bought with a small fortune from the Akka mines. Dagon and his men delivered chests of gold and dwarvish weapons to the distant lords of the realm. There was Lord Othmar, whose loyalty was to the strongest hand. He received a set of dwarvish plate armor, the very sight of which caused him to declare Ramssee the truest heir to the throne. And there was Lord Gannon, a reclusive lord who had never left his forested lands. He received a shipment of Akka’s finest sapphires, a gift so valuable it convinced him to send a personal letter of praise and support to the Royal Steward.
Ramssee wanted there to be no doubt that he was in charge, that he was the one who was bringing prosperity to the realm. He was a generous host, showering them with gifts—all of it stolen, of course, from the Akka mines. He had built his kingdom on a foundation of deceit and stolen wealth, and in his mind, it was his to keep.
And yet, despite all of his frantic movements, all of his grand gestures, a vast, insurmountable wealth from Akka still filled Ramssee’ secret coffers, making him one of the richest men on TerraVerde. He had a fortress of gold, a kingdom of adulation, a web of political power. He had everything a mortal could ever want, and yet… it wasn’t enough.
A specter still loomed, a shadow that no amount of gold or power could dispel. The fast-approaching return of King Diked, the young ruler who was meant to die in Ramos, but was now a looming storm cloud on the horizon here at home.
Ramssee, for all his cunning, for all his power, was still just a mortal man. And he was about to face a very old, very dangerous problem – would his efforts to win support of the power players and the public be enough to let him keep the throne, or would he instead be betrayed by them and left to the dogs?
The Apocrypha of Azazel 