The Legacy of Psirennevalia
By Zygmunt
All things had been well in Lord Piman’s fledgling base until the day arrows started flying about. Just nearby, a watchtower had been under construction, unnoticed, for the last month. Now, it began to shoot silly little shafts from its mysteriously emptyh ramparts. Once placid peasants fled from the fields, leaving them unattended and Lord Piman was wroth. He looked to the distance with his field binoculars and sure enough saw Psi Renne’s teal band engraved on the offending structure’s base. Until Lord Piman’s Dark Age civilization made a conscious effort to advance technologically, he could do little about this situation. He shifted his farmers to new fields and restarted production. Meanwhile, the tower fired its puny projectiles at Piman’s mill. The old donkey inside continued to turn the wheel it was perpetually strapped to and brayed nonchalantly.
Psi Renne could not but snicker as he watched his tower wreak extreme annoyance on Piman’s base. No doubt Lord Piman was having a fun time. Just then, a note in gothic style letters came up on Psi Renne’s palm pilot. Lord Piman had advanced to the Feudal Age. His grin quickly vanished.
Lord Piman sent a particularly worthless peasant to go build a barracks by Psi Renne’s base. The construction went on undisturbed for two months just behind a hill by his enemy’s houses. In the very moment that the lone peasant hammered the last board into place, the oaken cloning tanks inside started up with a resonant grinding sound. Within a few days, five Men-at-arms were ready to do Lord Piman’s bidding. They ‘showed up’ at Psi Renne’s base screaming and waving their swords. After a pep talk from Lord Piman, they were full of adrenaline. They were ready to die but didn’t find it necessary to do so. Psi Renne’s two guards were sitting and playing Candy Land in a grassy meadow. Their faces wore final stupid looks of surprise as their heads were lopped off. Psi Renne’s handful of peasants were having a wonderful village festival that morning. One rosy-cheeked woman was joyfully holding aloft her trophy for the best blood sausage when the five sweaty Pimanian soldiers began to slash the party decorations to pieces. A table laden with entries to the apple pie competition was cloven in two, ribbons and streamers were chopped into confetti, and the best pumpkins in town were smashed to pieces. A bell summoned the peasants to the town center, but they were so clumsy and so few that they were subdued before they could run to safety. The five men began to viciously hack at Psi Renne’s town center. Soon, more of Piman’s soldiers began to arrive and hope was lost for the once lively hamlet of Psirennevalia. The building, though very strong, began to catch on fire and Psi Renne himself screamed curses from its topmost window. Lord Piman arrived in person on his camel and mockingly offered to have his men help him down from there. “You’ll see, Lord Piman!” Screamed Psi Renne as the flames began to reach the attic where he resided. Just then, a great shadow fell over the Pimanian troops and they cowered to the ground. Psi Renne’s personal airship had arrived on the scene and when it passed, the defeated lord could be seen leering from the passenger compartment. “We shall meet again, Lord Piman!” He shouted as the blimp drifted into the distance.
Piman felt an immense satisfaction surge through him, but he remembered that there was someone else. Oh no! He had allowed Zygmuntian to ferment! There was only one thing to do now. He rushed to his castles and called for as many ‘Sassaren’ warriors as could be had. Already he heard a great rumbling across the landscape. A great army of scorpions, siege onagers, trebuchets, and woad raiders had ‘showed up’ at his base. The great force rumbled to a stop. A wooden hatch opened on top of one of the siege onagers and a little man with a ridiculous helmet that resembled half of a gigantic ping-pong ball stepped out with a pathetic effort at dignity. He pulled out a loud speaker and announced, “We wish to inform you that an onager is in fact an ungulate of the order perissodactyla that is thought of as being in between a horse and a donkey. Yet it is not a mule, but a species in itself. Our esteemed siege engines take their name from the powerful kick of which this animal is capable. We hope that you too make note of this resemblance!” The dopy little man climbed back into his siege weapon and quickly shut the hatch like a hermit crab withdrawing into its shell. Piman screamed for his troops to charge as boulders launched by trebuchets began to crash into his castles’ walls. The ‘Sassarens’ tossed their never-ending supply of scimitars into the ranks of Zygmunt’s troops, but they were quickly cut down by scorpion bolts and Woad raiders. Piman desperately sent dozens of his troops into the slaughter pit and eventually wore down Zygmuntian’s forces. He breathed a sigh of relief as he started preparing a counter-attack.
Zygmuntian was happily lounging around his base, wallowing in the excess and pomp provided by his vast empire. Lord Piman had actually left him alone all this time and now he was unstoppable. He had retrieved four of the relics. How he loved to go to church on Sunday and watch the coins flow from the tiny slits in those white boxes as if they were perpetually winning slot machines. All he had to do was sit back and build a few guys every now and then. BOOM! Zygmunt pushed aside his current mistress and pulled aside the velvet drapes of his balcony. Sure enough, a large force of Saracen Mamelukes accompanied by trebuchets were wrecking his base. Before his startled eyes, a massive castle collapsed into ruins. Zygmuntian’s great empire was large but atrophied and soft. Piman’s attack crashed into his base like a boxer’s fist into a couch potato’s gut. His vast holdings, however, still had the makings of power. Soon, every assembly line and cloning center in his possession was creating soldiers as quickly as possible. Yes, Lord Piman was inflicting substantial damage, but it would pass.
In a rage, Zygmuntic forces surged out of his peninsula and bitter fighting ensued over the next few years. Zygmuntian had by far superior resources and he cared little if the remains of his ‘gold-plated’ units lay about like broken toys. Over time, Piman was worn down by the Zygmunt empire’s clumsy but massive efforts. In black state robes he declared to his few remaining soldiers “I shall return uhh… someday.” He then jumped onto a Seafolk ship and sailed for Randland.
Zygmunt stood in his ceremonial gold-plated armor and looked from his highest tower over the land that now belonged completely to him. He doubted Piman would ignore him the next time. Still, Lord Psi Renne Psi Renne had been absolutely brilliant.