Beggarman

[Warre]

It was raining. It was raining, again. As the dark haired lad narrowed his eyes and thought of the dismal situation, that was all he could think to himself. 'It is raining. Again.' the thought floated through his entire consciousness as he crouched through the brush. It dominated the other thoughts into the shadows like a big dog dominates pups out of its sight.

As he crouched there –wet, cold, and getting wetter and colder ever moment– it was all he could think of. The rain's pitter patter plap was enough to drown out that mournful grumble of hunger pangs in his stomach as his icy blue eyes stood vigil across the landscape, flickering across it like a rabbit rushes from the snapping jaws of a wolf.

His vision was taking in the details which his ears couldn't in the tinny metal orchestra that was this heavy rain. The birds fluttering from branch to branch but trying to stay out of the rain. The grass being buffeted upon by the rabbits. The way the water pushed the creeks full and made ducks squawk in alarm as they were suddenly sit down read-made rapids.

The hunger- so dulled and so apart of him like the dull wet pain of soaked clothes, of the way his spear made his hands sore from holding it- it sprang out again, trumpeted upon him once again. When was the last time he had ate something that wasn't roots, or mushrooms, or gods damned potatoes? Stews and roasts and hamburgers. Slyvanian style hamburgers, with extra cheese. No, not Wiesebloc cheese, the good stuff- the sharp tasting stuff they made down Cascadia way.

They visions of such delicious foods fluttered across his vision like a man long in prison no doubt envisioned the greatest of beauties womankind had ever produced. And as he envisioned these deities of culinary greatness, fighting back the urge to drool– he finally saw his prey. The king of this forest, as far as those green eating beasts went. From the flash of white horn, from the sprinting hop he knew what it was. A Tyrculir “Ard Ri” Stag. The king of stags, as the words said.

Even against the chilling sound of a pack of wolves heralding their presence across the sky, he charged. “Harro harro!” came the words from his voice, so rarely used in the last few weeks. “Harro harro! Friend stag, you die today!” he continued the call, the challenge, as he rushed forward and continued using grunts and other sounds to make the stag thing he was more than he was.

It sprinted, not fooled by his words- but soon as it had, his spear had flown. He would not let this prize, this salvation. Go so quickly.

Elk meat was good, better when you'd all but starved for weeks.

 

[Warre]

He wasn't stranded on a desert island, though he was on a desert island. An island which was deserted for half-the-year on any given year, at least. He had been there for three months, and it had felt like three eons. Part of him almost thought it would be preferable to have sat through that time with hands steeped in prayer within the walls of a Potenzan monastery; part of him alright, but it was a small part.

As his hand quivered, as his hands quaked, he couldn't help but think how different this was from what he envisioned when he joined the army. The true Lyric army, the only regular army in the whole body of nations. They weren't even called soldiers, not any days. They were 'Fragarachai' or in the more common tongue anymore, that of the Havenites and the Engellexic, the Breotish and the Sylvanians, simply, “Answerers.” They were the answer to many questions for the Lyric people, but the most boldly asked, “What if someone tries to attack us, to invade us? Without a proper standing army what shall we do?”

So they trained hard, heady, in the old ways and in the new. They trained and forged bonds which the other armies wouldn't hope to form or care to. Bonds which were weaknesses as much as strengths, but they were the old way. For the Fragarachai were the great-grandsons of the Cu Aodha's red-branch. Even as he sipped the bitter brew of crushed nettles which some would call tea with a grin, he thought on all of that. Did he have the stuff of the legends who had pushed back the wildlings from these forests and vales, these islands and fields?

The rest of his brothers-in-blood, having come here to the abandoned docks to either greet him as one of them or to bury his corpse, they were solemn even as it stood. These were not the men which the average Lyric citizen thought them to be, they were not the loud singing, hard drinking braggarts of the motion pictures. They spent far more time training than wenching or bar-fighting.

They were the sword-arm ever ready, in the night or in the day. They were the guard dogs sniffing at the air to smell the threats which might assail their flock, be it wolves in Danish tuxedos, or the flannels and happy faces of Ivernish tourists who seemed to stay too long and take a suspicious amount of pictures, or even the ever-present monster which their country and its predecessor had helped build. Sylvania, that land of forests which felt it also had the right to tell the rest of the world what was best. Was it different from anyone else in that regard? No, as Jonas sipped his nettle-tea, he supposed not. They were just another of the imperial whales swallowing up the world, just another wave to push the armada that was the Lyric people in one direction or another that they may or may not have wished to go.

The tea was finished with one more bitter swig, and with a grunt he hobbled over to the skull of that stag which had so sustained him before. With a pat upon it's head, the glacial blue eyes, those eyes called so lyric by his countrymen? They narrowed in respect. Then he hoisted the skull skyward, letting out wild whoops in challenge to any wildling spirits which might dare to delve in this land so rooted as the new heartland of the sons of An Lyr.

They were loud, they were boisterous, they were called the grass-hoppers, the locusts, the crickets. But they were loud in war, never in peace. For the song they sung was a challenge to the world just as their chirping namesakes sung their song in announcement of their existence, and a challenge to any who would threaten their existence.

 

[Warre]

Tyrculir was a strange place for some people, the AnLyric weren't the people of the world at large, they weren't even near the same as their Ivernish cousines, despite speaking the same language. They had a checkered past, as all nations, all peoples do, but they didn't let it fill their life and hearts with hate. With a remorseful smile they thought of the mistakes they had made and their forefathers had made, and they thought all the more on what to do different.

As well worn boots, lace up and reinforced in the 'combat' style favored by the Fragarachai, skipped across the gravel road of this rural townstead, this baile, upon Hyboras Major, those thoughts flicked through the mind of the person who's body was powering the movement of those boots. He was a student, a graduate recently, of the University of CarrickAodh. His major had been something rather useless to the wide world, unless he wanted to work in a museum, as history had little other use, archeology was quack work after all.

This lad didn't need to be told how to use his major, though. He'd been told how he could use it for such exciting fields as teaching abroad or at home, up to even his former peers in college, given he had strained to get a masters in a quick time. As he felt the cool mist- or was it rain? One could never truly tell the difference in Tyrculir; as he felt it wash across his cheeks, he tightened his grip upon the hip length jacket that he was wearing. This road was rather annoying to have traveled down, having had to leave his Fragarach Motors 'Hatchet' cruising motorcycle where the pavement had ended and the gravel began, lest he find himself in some provincial bumpkin of a doctor's care to get tiny gravity and mother nature brand straphnel removed from his face. It was a long walk to BallyBranavras from where the townland's road had begun and the official roadway leading from Newhaven to CarrickFinn had ended.

But he was determined, with every step he was getting closer to his dream. To the dream which would be that of all Tyrculir, Tyr AN LYR he corrected himself. For there were other reasons that men studied history, other fields which it was useful in.

The mist continued, which made him grit his teeth in annoyance, shouting at the sky itself, “Ye listen here an' now! It's too hot to make a body hav'ta wear a damn wool and tweed jacket just to stay dry from the rain!” and then his melancholy cool returned, this young man striding forward only to be stopped mid-step by the obnoxious, almost goose like honk of a 1925 or probably earlier Fragarach Motors “Model A” Truck. A for all purpose, because people used them for everything, like this fellow with a regular school of silvery fish dangling from a net over the back. The driver took quite a few minutes to force the old window down, but then called out friendlily. “'Aai, aay! Never met ya before, name's Coaraig. Need a ride inta town? Probably another few miles to go if you insist on walking.”

It wasn't a country like Sylvania, or some dark hearted land of monsters in the skins of men, like Fennia or Pellewburg or even Carentania, so of course there was no hesitation in offering the ride, and of course as the rain started pooring a bit more thoroughly, there was no hesitation in accepting it. After all, Wade had a Draigdans knife at his hip, so if things got wrong, at least he'd die knowing he brought some monster into the fires of hell with a bloody slash. So as the door was opened, the dirty combat boots moved to climb into the truck's cab, and soon he was driving in.

“Thank you kindly.” the traveler said to the citizen of BallyBranavras, and soon as seatbelts clicked into place, even as jury-rigged as they were, the truck began down the road. Bumpy, but not the faceplant and stitches that would've been his motorcycle down this glorified path which thought itself a proper road.

It took only minutes, despite the practical relic of automobile, and soon they were in a township which didn't know if it was a city, a town, or a village and was caught somewhere in between. There were real roads, finally, and as they stepped out at the general store, Wade gave a thank you and disappeared in for information and to begin his quest to find the township, and thus clann's, headman. It was an important task, and as the old Lyric proverb went 'you shouldn't dream of the seven story tall house of your's before the bricks and bedrock of its foundation are ever even laid'. So he continued this task of laying the foundation.

***​

His travel and information gathering hadn't taken exactly long as he figured, not by any means. Somewhere in between his point of walking into the general store's attached diner and his laying his order, and elderly gentleman, one with a tan so dark that someone from more civilized places- say the townships in Eiffelland, might think him one of the native occidentian race known as the 'others', 'wildlings', or dozens of other terms.

Wade knew better, though, and walked on over with a polite nod. “Hello, ser.” he said, giving the polite 'ser', just because there was no way this guy was younger than him or near his age, half of his hair was already graying.

And oddly enough, this man so finely dressed- in a proper suit which would make the men of Pellewberg or the presumptuous 'sirs' of ol' Attreyu before it was Attreyu, positively forest green with jealousy, seemed to slip into a sales pitch or the tone of the same way any proper salesman in Tyrculir might.

“So-what's-brought'ya'ta-BallyBranavraaas, son? Car break down? I'd not be surprised if so, all those foreign buggers are alike, a few too many rain storms and kaput, makes me wish that Fragarach Motors would finally step into the automobile game.”

“No, no it hasn't, ser. I've got a Hatchet Cruiser, and I just parked it outside the townland's road because I was afraid it'd be a bit... ill thought, to make my first appearance into town with my face getting sewn up by the local doctor.”

“Heheh. I guess you're right there, son. None of the lasses like it when a boy's first seen getting sewn up, no, it's always the might scar after the stitches are cleared they want to blather about. Sorry-about-the-road. We're not exactly as rich as ol' Newhaven or CarrickFinn, and god forbid any comparison to a jewel like CarrickAodh... so the road's been like that for years. But if you've got any suggestions or improvements... I'm the number one to ask, the clann headsman.”

It made Wade step back a bit, caught a little off guard by this all. While he hadn't expected any clann headsman to act like THAT. He knew he wouldn't. This guy was acting more like a salesman or what he imagined an army recruiter in another country might act like. So it took him a moment to catch himself and ask the next question that came to mind, “So.. why's that? Looks like you got a fair number of people, and from the sights I saw walking, plenty of resources which ya should be able to put to work for you... hell, lest I'm blind or never seen a map properly, you're on the coast and there's what... a 500 foot drop after you? Why's there not some proper port status here? Riches are where you make 'em, or so they say, no?”

Now it was the Branavrasai clann's head's turn to be taken aback. That was certainly a lot of information for some sort've passerby to have, wasn't it? And wasn't the kid dressed a bit richly for a simple passerby? That tartan pattern was multi-threaded, not the rough patches and squares most wore in day-to-day shirts. The jacket looked academic, or maybe roughneck, and exactly what kind of city-boy ran around in combat boots? They weren't exactly fashionable with the ladies, couldn't do any fancy tap-a-tap-a-tap dances with them. Only clunk-a-dunk-a-dunks. It was enough to slow that rapidfire I'm-too-busy-running-my-clann's-affairs-to-talk-slow machine gun dialectics, too. “Uh... son... what're you then? A salesman? Some kind of Fragarachai lookin' to retire...? We've got room and plenty of available girls about your age... I'm just wondering why you know so much about us, and only those two things make sense. Yer're not apart of a clan? What's yer name?”

Wade had gained the advantage in this verbal skirmish, it seemed, but he slipped into the medium-slow speech of 'The Commonman's Tyrculir' given the provinces and islands each had their own little quirks, but they were all taught the same proper ways to speak English and Lyrige, and read them and write them, as students. “No, no ser, not a salesman... not in the traditional sense. And no, not a Fragarachai. I really look like I been down to Ivernian Himyar or on some foreign tours before? I'd probably have a bonnie foreign girl with me if I was and was comin' to settle, I'd figure. And my name? Wade MacWard, son of Connor MacWard.”

And it wouldn't take any rocket scientist, jet engineer, goat surgeon, or even Havenite submarine chef- to know that there weren't any clans in Tyrculir named 'MacWard'. Hell, Ward was an uncommon enough name in Tyrculir as it was. So that calmed the man, who nodded, “So... why ARE you here, young man...? Here, lemme buy your lunch.” and then to the kitchen, “Coleen? The boy out here? His lunch is on the house.”

“Says who?”

“Coleen! Dunnae embarrass me like that, listen to your uncle when he says something's on the house, or next time I'm in CarrickAodh I won't look at one of those pretty Potenzan crosses for ya!”

“Fine, fine.”

And soon, the roast beef and turkey sandwich, sliced, with tomato spinach, and topped with a fried egg before the top bread was added, and of course potatoes, fried in the way that some Lyric or Slyvanians argued about, if they were “Frescanian Fries”, “Freedom Fries”, “Montelimarian Fries”, or “Ivernish Fries”, despite the fact that in most of those countries thanks to Havenite and Breotonian influences, the dish would probably be called 'chips', rather than fries. Sitting down, and putting the plate in front of him, soon Wade was greeted with a bottle of Riain Ghoath, the soda-pop which had a slight lead in favoritism in Tyrculir, and which was favored by the rural folks. Taking a moment to thank the preparer of his food as she walked away, he picked up the sandwich and took a bite, one sizable bite that ended up sending the slightly cooked yolk of his egg dripping down his chin, which he wiped with a handkerchief.

As he took a bite or two, “So mister Wade MacWard? You here looking for a place to call home? That's the only other thing I can see. Maybe you're a vagabond and figure that we can afford to let you move inta town and put you to work, maybe even offer you membership into the clann? Half of those who should be members can't even be just because they happen to be 'wildlings'. I bet yer more wild than any of them ever've been.”

Wade's icy blue eyes, those 'Lyric blues' which some might even call grey, flickered over the man as he dipped his fry in some of the drippings of the juices from the sandwich, smiling gently. “I'm looking for a place to call home, yes. But you're right, that'd be unfair of me to even think...” he nodded gently, before smiling. “Fortunately for you I'm here to help, not to cause your kin and neighbors any more problems than the system's already caused you.” And another fry, a sip of the sweet lime and spicy cherry flavored soda, then continuing. “I didn't answer your questions fully, I admit. My name is Wade MacWard, yes, but in true form it'd be written Wade MacTyrward.” and there was no one in Tyrculir the man's age and learning who wouldn't know what that meant.

Immediately, the man was offering him another soda, flushed, “I'm sorry if I offended... admittedly so. I didn't even think I'd ever meet a MacTyrward in my life...” and then he the older man had the deer in headlights expression. “Ye... you didn't... say what yer sellin'.”

And then the younger man gave his elder a grin, a grin so wide and so sudden it made his nose twitch a bit to do it and made his dimpled cheeks spasm for a moment or two as well. “I'm a historian, you could say... so I'm selling the past... but more important than the past? I'm selling the future.” he tapped his boot, one of those clunk-a-dunk-a-dunks all right as he shoved a few more fries in his mouth. Then he continued.

“As you know, no doubt, being a clanns-head, the system of government, representation in the legislature, and even control of land and towns, focuses and fixes itself heavily on the clann system. That is why we CuLyric have been known since the revolution of eighteen-hundred-and-eight-teen, and even before it, to be so utterly friendly to outsiders. No matter if they be foreigners new to the land and hoping to make a name for themselves, to people from other parts of the country. Because every person who became such a friend that they would throw themselves in with your clann, become one of your kinsmen by blood or oath- increased your clann's power within the legislature by a definite measure. For every clann head votes represents the people of his clann. It's why we've even allowed the creation of new clanns, so long as they were white...” he flicked his eyes towards the man, then to one of the wildlings in the restaurant, picking up a bag lunch as covertly as she could given the strange visitor right near the counter. Perhaps his words had made he coyly stand there, but more likely it was a natural culture of fear. “Yet Lyric sons and daughters, who speak Lyrige, who would worship whatever gods we told them to, who would fight for us just as much as their blood family if we were invaded? The wildlings? The blacks? The Touyounese? They're all excluded. The people who can call this land their own just as much as we do, its natives? They even after Fifteen HUNDRED years of co-existence with us, cannot join the clanns themselves. Not even their sons and daughters can, up until the point three fourth's 'white' ancestry is proven.”

Of course the whole explanation was rhetorical, as much for drama as anything else, and the Clannshead understood that, not even bothering to nervously take a sip of his own drink in hopes his companionship would keep eyes off the wildlings that were in the general store or picking up their lunch. He didn't respond, despite the age difference, instead simply letting the young man get to whatever his 'point' was.

“It doesn't just hurt them. It hurts people like you, who can see past color and birth. It hurts our nation, too. They can't bring forth their ideas without a sponsor to be the 'owner' of a business, they're assailed, they're generally sent to flee or to hide in shanties in the middle of the forest. They should be the same as any other sons and daughters of Tyrculir... and I will make it so. What I am selling is the right path for our nation, and all you have to pay for it is your support in the council of clanns for what me and mine plan to do. Tyrculir is weak, it is suffering in ways which it can't know. In danger from attack from abroad and from insurrection from within, and it is because of this confederational system. I would put an Ard Ri upon the old throne of oaken branches.”

And it didn't take inference who this young history student meant to be the High King. The Lyric proverb was 'Actions for all worlds', and as the coyly looking lass stared at Wade, he gave her a friendly grin it was clear that he thought no better than him for the task, and his clann would not have let him do such a fool-hearty thing- given him knowledge that others would not even have, if they did not approve as well.

 

[Warre]

Where he was now was definitely different from where he had been, or where he would be later. It was more than a metaphorical statement, having taken a ferry with his motorcycle and bag from Hyboras Major to the farthest flung of the islands which made up the collective nation which was known to the world these days at Tyrculir.

It really did feel like he was in another country, though- despite the banners that fluttered in the wind at the Corrigansport where the ferry had came in. To the east, to the west, to the north, to the south- all around the island as he stood on the rocky shores of Corrigansport, he could see only the great blue waters of the mass which some called the New Lyric sea, and others called the Bay of AnLyr. Anywhere else in Tyrculir, he could see the rest of the country if he really was looking, but here it was isolated. Even the wind felt a little different as he heard one of the town's dancehalls blasting over it's loudspeaker “You ain't nooooooothin' but a hound dog, cryin' aaaallll thee tiiiiiiime.” lyrics from a song which seemed fitting but he didn't know. As soon as he gas up his Motorcycle, checking the tires and the breaks though, he was driving out of Corrigansport. It was busy, bustling, compared to the other city on Corrigan's Rock, but it was only to make sense given Corrigansport was where the statue of Sylvanian-Lyric friendship had been erected, donated, by some Sylvanians some century ago.

As his tires hit the open road past city limits, he felt that even the streets were different. Remembering all too well the long walk down to BallyBranavas, this wasn't anything like the gravel road he had contended with there. No, this was racing rock, fine quality pavement that was smooth and didn't have dips or drops in its even-ness, it was obvious that the people of Corrigan's Rock took care of this road, despite both major settlements on the island being on the coast with their own ports.

Different priorities, he figured- but also different attitudes. The people of Corrigan's Rock were all functionally what one before might've called the same tribe, it was dominated by two big clans which just so happened to have been started by the sons of Corrigan himself, allegedly. That was one of the reasons the statue had been put here, instead of in CarrickAodh or a larger city, because this was Corrigan's place, the land of his blood.

***​

He found himself humming that lyric a little bit, having picked up more snippets of the song he was now calling 'Hound dog' in his head, as he had traveled the hour or so from Corrigansport down the road to the first settlement on Corrigan's Rock, CarrickCorrig. As he entered the town's limits, the townland proper versus the farmlands and forests which dotted the rest of the island, he slowed down. Last thing he needed, after all, was an accident with a car or running over some poor kid who wasn't watching. It was the last thing he needed and also the last thing he would want.

He wasn't surprised at the greetings which flew his way, phrases fluttering through the air in English, in Ivernish, and in Lyrige proper, as he passed through, and obvious new face. A few gentlemen in suits even waved him down enough that he slowed his Fragarach Motors 'Hatchet' and let them spout about how it was nice to see him, welcome! And how he should check out this business or that, his boots looked mighty scuffed, and maybe he'd like to see the Museum of AnLyric-Sylvanian Affairs, that was here in CarrickCorrig, not back in Corrigansport, like so many people thought!

He already knew these things, of course for he wasn't simply the type to just come dancin' into a town while whistling the same old tune, thinking this town was the same from the rest. No, when he got his masters in history, he had studied plenty of political events too, and he was quite good at playing dumb and letting his fellow man give him information he might want, like someone from CarrickCorrig telling him about the Museum, spouting it as the pride of the town! But it wasn't why he was here, not really at least. So scuffed boots, came down on the brick and mortar of the town proper's street just as soon as he got to his destination, a three story book store.

Icy eyes flicked up to the banner hanging from the maroon, brown and firetruck red colored brick building, just to make sure he was in the right place. “MacCorrigan Books. All the newest books, comics and graphic novels from across the country! Best prices on Corrigan's Rock!” and as the dark haired scion of the MacTyrwards slipped into the building, he slung his bag over his shoulder. It was going to be interesting, and it was a good test of a person's attitudes of they tried to hassle you about bringing a bag into their establishment.

***​

A book store which had a cafe in it, now, that was a total surprise to him and a true innovation of the modern world. He would have killed for a book store or library with a cafe in it when he was still in CarrickAodh, studying for his masters- he would've absolutely killed for it. So as he bit into the tuna-fish-salad sandwich that they had offered for their special, he relaxed in his chair and well- listened. Eyes narrowing as he took bites of the sandwich, he simply listened.

“But Johnny! If that's the case, what do we call our system? I got a penpal in Sylvania... and another in Auraria... both are pretty cute, but when they've asked what Tyrculir is as a government, I've not been able to tell either of the girls the answer! Are we or are we not post-delegationalmajig?”

Johnny, a figure who probably had about ten years on Wade himself, tensed at that- and being called Johnny. Wearing a collared plaid shirt, slacks, well-shined leather shoes and glasses that made him seem positively Touyou-nese when he squinted because of the son, he was a very particular figure all right, and an irritated one at the response from the teenage kid who had asked him that question. All around him, some ten or so children were gathered, for to an outsider might seem something in between a high school class room setting and a collegiate discussion, it was obvious that this Johnny figure was a teacher, obvious to anyone really looking or listening at least.

“Do. Not. Call. Me. Johnny, Mister MacNamara. Do. Not. My name is Johnathan MacCorrigan, and given that I am the professor of this class and one of this towns perhaps twenty dedicated teachers, you will call me Mister MacCorrigan or Professor MacCorrigan, not Johnny.” he huffed, obviously frustrated, because young MacNamara almost retorted before 'Johnny' glared at him with so much irritation it had the force of a thousand artillery shells. If he hadn't been wearing glasses, it was enough to maybe make people think his eyes would pop outside of his head.

“That said, no, we are not Post-Delegationalist. Neither are we a Republic in the Sylvanian, Aurarian, or Malfueric sense, either. The proper terminology in a governmental explanation for things would be a 'Collective-ist Representative Democracy', given as you all know from our previous lessons, the modern government of the country gives each clan one representative into the Council of Voices. Each representative is then in turn given a weighted vote based on the number of members of their clann who are Lyric nationals. Which is why bigger clanns always have bigger say.”

“Innit that called a Meritocracy?” came another question, this from a boy sitting at the table adjacent from young Mister MacNamara. “The book said after 1818 we started being a Meritocracy.” he remarked, and smiled as if he thought he really had helped things out.

“No, Connor, that isn't the case- sadly. We are a collective-ist Representative Democracy, but before the revolution of 1818, yes, we were a Meritocracy. Then we were a Collectiveist Meritocratic High-Kingdom, with a High King.”

And a kid wearing his Meath FC jersey proud for all to see added in in another 'I'm helping!' way, “Like Ivernia, right?”

Which prompted a sigh from the teacher, “Yes, like Ivernia in name and in many ways function, but not entirely like Ivernia. Their system is more akin to that of the Germanic Empires on the Middle Ages, given their influence by them over time. To explain further, when we were a Meritocratic High-Kingdom, we had a High King, chosen from the royal family by the people, for life. It didn't matter if he was directly in line for the throne or not, just that he was worthy, and apart of the Royal Family, the descendents of Tyrward the First. Beyond that, we had dozens of...” air-quotes were thrown up, “ 'Kings', of the various tribes of Lyrics who showed up after we initially did, or who we invited to come to Occidentia. While some really were hereditary rulers who spoke for their clanns because their fathers or grand-fathers or uncles spoked for their clanns, the other Ri, that's the proper title after all, they were elected by the governing council of their clanns either for what amounted to a yearly term, a bi-yearly term, a decade, or a life-time, depending on the clann itself.” and he sounded a little wistful now, “We were a meritocracy then, because despite the fact that some people were born into their representative power, they had to take care of their people regardless, and the power which they were afforded in the Council of Voices wasn't afforded in the same way. Simply by out-numbering the population of the rest of your region, you couldn't simply force politics favorable to yourself into the legislature, and take all the money our taxes contribute to spend on bettering your clann just because it's larger, leaving the scraps for the rest.”

Apparently hearing him talk about that shut them up, or it was Wade's slow walk out of the stone floored cafe area which shut them up as he looked at them before walking over to the nearest 'new releases' stand, to go through the Havok! Comics about and the IPH releases, all of which were of course there in clear view to boost the possibility of them selling well by people in town knowing they were new and thereby 'exciting'.

The lecture continued, though. “No, during the Meritocracy, the clanns were each given votes based on the number of people which they possessed, yes, but they were given additional votes for every citizen which existed within their ranks.” and then he didn't mind the piped in response, from an auburn haired lass with her hair up in a pony-tail, “Citizens? Stuff like what people from Sylvania are called or what old Tibur's nationals were called?”

It made the teacher smirk, and he nodded, “Yes, in a way, but unlike the former, citizens were not born into the status of citizens. And unlike the latter, simply possessing wealth had nothing to do with your status as a citizen, either. No, no. In the pre-1818 days, a citizen was someone who 'served the state' and bettered the country in the process. Police officers, Doctors, Teachers, Members of the Military Forces, people who had done tremendously heroic acts and were rewarded for it, they were all considered citizens, as was any person who donated a sizable amount of money to create a public works project that bettered the infrastructure and being of the entire nation. And their votes counted for five votes in the local elections for who to make the Clann Head, that is to say the 'Ri'... and for every citizen that existed within a clann, the clann had the weight of four more votes behind them in the Council of Houses. So things were more fair, because even a small house could prosper if it decided to devote itself to the state and helping the nation prosper, and simply contributing some taxes and sitting with a large population wasn't the path to absolute power.”

Yes, Wade was sure he had come to the right place then, but he waited- waited until this class had been dismissed by of all things, the sounds of a baking timer, before walking over to the Professor and introducing himself with one simple phrase. “And if I could promise you a return to Meritocracy... Do you think you could promise me your help in securing the return to the federalized Monarchy that we lived under before...? I represent a group that is quite worried about a number of current events, but sees us being useless to the world at large without change...”

So a meeting was set.

 

[Warre]

The Danmarker made clock chimed the time with an obnoxious 'hoot, hoot' for every hour past twelve that had passed, and as he sat in the darkened section of the auditorium, staring at nothing but the dim lit clock and the deep maroon of the curtains, he felt a bit uneasy. While talking to one person was one thing, or even small groups, this was different. He wasn't an actor, he may have studied plenty of historical events, plenty of politics in the modern establishment of their country and beyond, all of that, but it wasn't as if their universities taught people to be politicians.

A part of him wanted to just turn around and step out the back door of this combined local theater and auditorium, but the other part told him that he had to stand his ground, that he had to stand his ground. While the shadowy whispers of fear of failure and of simply not being up for the tasks which would be lent to him tomorrow sung their chorus in his mind; weighing him down like so many chains in burden, he struggled against them. Like Atlas at the pillars of Terrastania, he tensed against the weight but slowly began to stand. For as he thought of all the prospects of failure that lay ahead of him. For as he thought of all the challenges that lay ahead of him, he thought too of the disastrous consequences which could come about in the nation if there was not a movement of change.

For too long, it had sat on his hands when disaster struck, and it had already seen nations which were sovereign and long-free find themselves reduced to rump-states or directly conquered. Some nations which found this done by states which were far from them and outside of the sphere of their direct affairs. With neighbors like Sylvania and Pellewburg, it wasn't as if one had to be overly paranoid, just a twinge, to see the same sort of incident happening in their own homeland.

His shoulders tensed, and at the sound of the crowds, the chorus of their whispered chatter as he waited, he finally stood up. Dusting off his collared shirt, and folding up his jacket before he placed it on the chair he had been sitting on, he strode forward. He knew he didn't have to look perfect for this meeting, but he wanted to make the best impression he could. Because while his people, the AnLyric people of Tyrculir, were not the same as the nations of old world, it still seemed laughable for a person who would be the High King of a nation to come out in slightly wrinkled, or messy clothes to talk to a crowd.

One more pass-over of the shirt and his slacks, and then he stepped through the curtain, into the half-lit hall which served the people of CarrickCorrig and the surrounding settlements, farmsteads, and two-to-three house and family fishing 'villages'. The place was full, surprisingly enough to him, and as his icy blue eyes flickered across the crowd he took their note. Johnathan MacCorrigan hadn't lied when he said he could gather the majority of the people who would be important to this cause here, by tonight- and indeed what seemed to be every police officer, constable, fire-fighter, emergency medical technician, doctor, teacher, and in some cases from the wearing of fatigues and the tired look on their face, militia-man, on the entire island of Corrigan's Rock was here. Some seemed excited to hear what he had to say, some seemed skeptical, some simply curious, and others stuck somewhere in between. Walking out to the middle of the stage, where the microphone was set up, he breathed a bit heavily and began to tap it, giving a “Testing... testing... this is the first time I've ever used one of these things...” to the crowd.

The seemed not to be affected by that, which was good – because if they had taken it negatively it might have made any composure he had gathered disappear. To think, this young man seemed to have stage fright, yet seemed to have the thought he could be the High King of Tyrculir. No one running for President in any other country would even consider it if they had stage fright, for for many, being a great orator was the same as being a great leader. Taking a deep breath- one which caused a screech throughout the hall's speaker system, unfortunately- but he didn't let that shock him out of his course. He began his speech without any more hesitance- because the last thing he needed to seem was shy and meek in their culture.

“Brothers and sisters. We have too long forgotten our common bond as Lyraigh. We are all the sons and daugthers of old An Lyr, and yet we eye each other with the same paranoia that we would more wisely eye at our neighbors. With the aristocratic imperialism of Pellewburg to the south, the republican imperialism of Slyvania to the north, and the Malheur Republic and Alexandras both having their own messy messy affairs, we still slump. On the world stage and in general, no matter how much we try economically, diplomatically, or culturally, our current solution to government does nothing for us abroad, or more importantly nothing for us at home.” He paused then put a bit of higher voice pitch in this, emphasizing his words when he said it, “Except hurt us, that is.”

He looked at them, at all of them, and tensed his shoulders. “As it stands, the clanns which pop out the most babies or have the most population, be it native born or immigrants who were integrated into the clanns, are the ones which have the most power in the Hall of Voices. They make sure the confederation government makes things go their way, and do nothing to actually help our nation, just themselves. They have no one to answer to, and ultimately some of them have caused us to make disastrous losses. The breakaway of big and little Ravenhold.” He didn't need to emphasize, given his history field of study, he knew the nation's history just as well as a person from the region, and Big and Little Ravenhold, or Crow's Rock and Raven's Rock, as both names had been used when those islands joined Alexandras, which was no big deal in the national scale, and even locally increased the importance of Corrigan's Rock, as trade from Slyvania, the majority of Tyrculir's islands, and even further, all often passed through CorrigansPort and CarrickCorrig on their way to The Malheur Republic and Alexandras. But in the local psyche, and their sense of national pride? It was huge.

“Not even to account for the loss of the Island of Kelster to Sylvania, which hurt our ability to profit from trade coming through the straits of AnLyr into the Bay, and also stopped any chance of colonization into the Northern Islands.”

They weren't big deals, either, to the people of Tyrculir, but it did force his point. Kelster, Rygard, and Padraig's Watch had all been territories which had once been settled between Sylvanian settlers and CuLyric settlers, and while settlements dotted throughout the duo of islands, far fewer Sylvanian settlements existed in Rygard or Padraig's Watch than CuLyric settlements in the territory the Lyrics had once called Kelster. Yet with some federalized military might and force of will, Sylvania took the island which was larger and closer to them, sending the ancestors of the majority of Rygard and Padraig's Watch's respective populations to those lands, before forcing the Council of Voices to sign an agreement to force recognition of Slyvanian Patrimony and legitimate control over Kelster, while taking their time removing the settlements of ethnic Sylvanians from Rygard and Padraig's Watch, despite that island being recognized as Tyrculir's territory.

Tensing his shoulders, he went onwards. “It could happen again. The rich vinyards, valleys and orchards of Abalach would likely seem a ripe imperial ambition to the Pellewburgers. The Sylvanian's might go after Tyran's Isle, or even Corrigan's Rock, and what would we have the ability to stop them? Little. Militias and whatever few volunteers that would move forward. In the worse of cases, if we made some governmental move to better take care of our citizenry which just happened to not be in line with their ideology, would you say even for a second you think they would not try to send forth a coup into our region, if not a direct invasion branded as a 'Liberation'? The same things have seen rise in the imperialist actions done by Engellex and Frescania in the Bantyrs.”

That caused murmuring, and he let the murmuring continue for a moment, before speaking up into the microphone once more.

“I would propose a change of all that. When we were still an Ard Riocht, a High Kingdom. When the proper tenets of Meritocracy, wherein the clanns had power based on what they contributed to the nation and their fellow clanns, not just their births, were followed. And ultimately, when there was a man who could hear the voice of all his fellow Lyrics and would have the power to remind the House of Voices of it. To do what must be done, for the people, by the nation.”

That caused murmuring, before one of the crowd, an auburn haired man who's hair was thinning and combed back because of that, speak up. “A High King? And who would you have be this? Is there even someone truly worthy within the MacWards or the Mac Cu Aodhs as a whole? How could we know if he would listen?”

That made Wade simply smirk. “Well, I'm listening right now, aren't I?”

The kindling of fire had been sparked.