by Max Barry

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by The Sergeant Supreme of Refuge-. . 39 reads.

A Recolection of Herbert Wallace

Herbert Wallace

Wallace, self-styled Emperor of Mount Abandon


Controlled by:







AE607 (63 years)



Items and Abilities


Applied Chemistry
Wilderness Survival

Net Worth:

ⓟ 28.00

It was a particularly bright night.

The sun was up, birds were chirping, and Talamaeus Laraxius III, first of his name, emperor of Fyrom was feverishly surveying his domain. The wind swept though the trees, a white poofy cloud floated mindlessly through a bright blue sky... it was surely midnight. A young man of only sixty three, already he had a reputation as a great uniter. It was only a few months ago, when he was fifty seven, that he ventured outside of his mud hut to a small barn in the middle of the woods and proclaimed "You can be in my empire!" And so the story began of this great military and political powerhouse.

The emperor stood just behind one of the boulders on the rocky terrain at the base of of Mount Abandon, his brown linen robe flowed in the breeze, the holes in the lining of the robe, a display of the traditional culture of the realm. Mostly, he was satisfied with the survey today. The one hundred and thirty six large boulders on the eastern slope had, indeed, heeded his warning to seek a permit before moving to a new location; fortunately, the permits had been neither filed nor necessary. It was fortunate because the political and ideological significance of even one boulder being rotated, even slightly, was incalculable to even his wisest sages, crows.

He peered across the top of a boulder, spying one such crow just now. His left eye twitched every now and then, a curse of the tremendous power associated with the majesty of his station. The crow sat in a tree not more than five metres ahead. An adult male, black as day and reasonably groomed. It was making some impossibly loud squawking at least twice a second. Occasionally, it stopped, surely to absorb some of the emperor's own frustration with it as fuel to continue squawking for another few minutes. The emperor furrowed his brow in disgust. By now, his courier field mice must have been throughout the realm to pronounce his edict that day should become night and night day, but lo! This crow acts as though nothing has changed and disregards even basic respect for the laws of Fyrom as it hides behind its *birthright-status* as a imperial sage, well. That ends today.

The emperor reached into a pocket on his robe and withdrew a bag that seemed too large to be able to fit. It was made of buckskin, as deer were enemies of the state for not consulting him on a standard number of horn points. The bag was tied shut with hair. Lots of hair. A small black cord extended out of the side of the bag. The emperor held the bag up and positioned the cord between his eyes. In the old days, before things were ruined by one of the eastern slope stones deciding to shift position, his stern look and strong reputation alone would have set this cord alight. Certainly it had happened only once before, but Talamaeus Laraxius never forgets. He produced a small tinderbox from the linings of his robe. The emperor's robes always contained the precise materials needed for his success because he only left his fortified earthen palace for highly specific reasons and only with the latest scouting reports from his spying turnip.

The emperor ducked behind the boulder and sat down in the small rocks interspersed with grass. These rocks were not enumerated because they were only allowed ninety-day tourism visas. He got to work preparing a fire from sticks and brush. After a moment, he popped his head back over the boulder to gaze upon his enemy. It stopped squawking, if only for moment. They long stared into each other's eyes, at least four seconds. The passion, burning. The hatred, mutual. Bored, the crow looked away and began to squawk again. The emperor sat back down and resumed working, muttering to himself about the rule of law. A flame formed in the box. He set the black cord of the bag to the fire and it began to smoke and sizzle.

"Night isn't a time for crowing," said the emperor. "It's a time for sleeping!" He roared as he threw the leather bag over the boulder at the winged fiend. The bag exploded in air, as bright and red-hot as it was terrible and great. The tree was engulfed in flame and the hundreds of leaves began crackling as water turned to steam inside their living cells. At the base of the tree, the crow lay motionless. It was now asleep. It was very, very, very asleep. It was also on fire, but the edict had been enforced, and that was what mattered most. All creatures in the realm would learn something this day:

Order would reign, thanks to Talamaeus Laraxius III, the great emperor of Fyrom.