In the kingdom of Eldreth, where the sun shone with the enthusiasm of a tired old man and the moon glimmered like an unwashed silver coin, King Malachai sat upon his throne, the grandest relic of misplaced optimism this side of a rather dubious prophecy. The throne itself—an assemblage of darkly polished wood, gold inlay, and a suspiciously squeaky cushion—was believed by local historians to have been carved from the remains of an ancient battle-axe. It was both a symbol of his power and a painfully obvious reminder of the masses lost to it.
“Ah, another fine day in Eldreth,” Malachai proclaimed with all the vigor of a three-legged toad. It was said that a king’s knowledge of his own realm was boundless, but the common folk wondered if he had ever bothered to crack open a geography book, let alone take a jaunt beyond his own palace grounds. His court consisted of sycophants who would smile at the king while simultaneously plotting to claim more gold than they would see in a lifetime. Fawning over Malachai was an art form more intricate than tapestry, and just as prone to unraveling.
As he draped a boring purple robe over his shoulders—because apparently, royal drapery had to be flamboyant in a way that screamed “I can’t find my dignity”—he glanced out the window. The sight that greeted him was heartening: a gaggle of peasants in the village square below, attempting to determine whether the price of turnips or the quality of their own miserable lives was more worthy of their attention.
“Gerald,” Malachai called. His voice echoed through the hall, quaking with the subtlety of an avalanche as it reached his chamberlain. Gerald was a tall, wiry man whose hair had thinned to a point that he resembled a particularly pensive ferret.
“Your Majesty,” Gerald twitched, for he was always on edge in the presence of his king, and not just because he had once accidentally suggested that Malachai listen to the advice of a witch with a penchant for cuddly kittens.
“May I suggest a royal proclamation?” Malachai asked, entirely unsolicited.
“Regaling us with tales of how you’ve grown fond of turnips is not a proclamation,” Gerald blurted, quite against his will, and for that he was promptly smacked upside the head, a marginally painful reminder that articulate speech was best reserved for days that did not include complete disaster.
“Let’s not get sidetracked by your audacity,” Malachai said with a smirk that could curdle milk. “I want the kingdom to know we are prosperous. Tell the peasants to gather, and I shall inspire them with my grand vision of where we’re headed.”
Gerald nodded, deflated but compliant. He left, muttering darkly about the impending calamity of a speech and whether he could find a suitable exit should it come to that.
Moments later, the peasants gathered, warily optimistic that they’d be attending the grandest and most entertaining speech since last year’s calamity involving standing water and a sudden influx of frogs. Malachai stood before them, adorned in royal purple, looking every bit the part of a king—if one were to omit charisma, charm, and the basic knowledge of what it meant to inspire.
“Citizens of Eldreth!” he boomed, and the peasants squirmed at the volume. “I bring you tidings of prosperity and wealth!”
The crowd was silent, assessing whether to scoff or cheer. Some cackled at the very idea, crossing arms as if to fortify themselves against the waves of nonsense that would surely follow.
“The treasury is bursting at the seams with coin!” Malachai continued, a glint of madness in his eye, reminiscing fondly about the last time he’d ever set foot near the treasury. That day had been filled with nothing but an endless stream of boredom, paperwork, and the occasional rat.
One brave soul from the front shouted, “My lord, we barely make a penny a day, and you speak of wealth!”
“Ah, yes, but the wealth is symbolic!” Malachai replied, waving his hands about like a madman trying to shoo away an imaginary swarm of midges. “Symbolic wealth is the true wealth! Did you not know that?”
The crowd stared blankly at him, collectively considering whether their own symbolically wealthy imaginations would sustain them while they starved.
“Symbolic wealth?” another voice piped up. “Does that come with a side of turnips?”
At this point, Malachai began to suspect his reign might have peaked when he ordered the knights to form a parade for the last festival of gluttony, which had ended in a rather notable incident involving an intoxicated bard and a goat.
“Fear not!” he cried, voice dripping with the kind of enthusiasm that only a man with a dwindling grip on reality could muster. “For I shall lead you to victory! Imagine a time when bread flows like water, when turnips are free to roam the fields, and we shall have festivals that last until the age of our grandchildren!”
The crowd, now thoroughly confused, stared silently at him, questions hanging like stale bread in the air. Someone whispered, “What if we want cheese instead of turnips?”
“Enough!” Malachai lost his temper like a ship without a captain and began waving his arms about in an attempt to visually distract them from his blunders.
But the peasants, being a curious lot, soon began to express their own grievances. “What’s this about the taxes?” one brave soul shouted, emboldened by the spirit of their satirical king. “My sow has taken to eating too much of my own crop!”
“Ah yes, taxes! Right! I was just getting to that!” Malachai stammered, discomfort etched across his brow. “I mean, I have a plan… of sorts. We just need to cut costs—perhaps institute a ‘turnip tax’ to fund more important things! Yes, things we won’t even have to use!”
“Things,” echoed the crowd, both bewildered and entertained. Was their king really proposing they pay for things they wouldn’t even receive? A grand idea indeed, pulled straight from a fever dream where logic had toppled over into a well of madness.
Days passed, and the people began to relish the idea. They even coined the phrase “turnip tax” in hushed tones in the taverns, earning them the reputation of being the likeliest land of dreamers drunk on the promise of something they couldn’t even comprehend. Yet somehow, unbeknownst to Malachai, his sermon of balderdash had started to blossom into something more—a movement, as absurd as it was affectionate.
And so, the good king of Eldreth continued to stumble through his rule, armed with nothing but a firm belief in symbolic wealth and the utterly optimistic notion that everything he said would turn out just fine. Amidst turnips, taxes, and the inevitable misallocation of grain, Eldreth might just survive another day under the watchful gaze of a king who had truly lost his marbles, yet who somehow managed to unite a kingdom in shared jest.
It was a peculiar, tedious time, but no one could say it wasn’t entertaining.