Role

Chapter 2

Concertina wire fills the blasted landscape as far
as the eye can see, stretching towards the mile-high
towers of Galadon on the horizon. Imperial Drones
patrol, but there is no life here. The wind carries us
towards the city.

Huge screens dominate the cityscape. The Emperor's
Image is literally everywhere. All Hail Gentleman Jim,
Undead Emperor of Thera! Everywhere one looked
Jim's grinning skull visage was to be seen. Thank him
for this prosperity. Thank him for ending the war. Thank
him for the war they were currently winning. All Therans
owed their lives to him.

Every citizen was a bloodoath at least. Every
citizen trained with Imperial Issued phased plasma
rifles by the time they came of age. The war was over.
The war was constant. Darkness and Order. Darkness and
Order. Do your duty.

The Eastern gates opened and the most recent of
the wounded were ferried in on hovercarriers. The
streets of Galadon were, naturally, spotless,
but the Eastern road was a mess since the Outlanders
had taken Hamsah.

Jim was said to be holding the Palace on his own,
an army of zombie former Wardens, Sentinels, and
Reavers standing by The Vanquisher, whose cannons
watched over the siege. By his wisdom and grace we
would prevail, especially as the sects marched on the
invaders from the south after fighting hard through the
woods and the now overgrown Imperial Lands.

But there was food. Yes, it came from the Elemental
Plane of Food and the quality was terrible, but it was
better than the days of eating rats. Times were good.
The Arcane Sect's conjurers made sure of that.

And there were no more gnomes. No more gnomes of any
sort. No more Glippitydork peck you in your ass gnomes.
No more dirt gnomes. No more stone gnomes. No more
riddle gnomes. No more rhyming gnome priests. The last
one fell to Jim during a huge ceremony that was viewed
by everyone in the Civilized cities a thousand years earlier.

"Die!" said Jim while pointing at it and its heart just
exploded. No more gnomes. You'd have thought that
such a wise group would have seen this coming. "The
Luck of the Gnomes" had come to mean "the worst luck
possible" and calling someone a svirfniblin was enough
to draw blasters in some quarters.

The people are fat and sick, doughy and sweaty. The
sky burns odd colors at odd times, clouded with pollution
sent spewing forth from near and far. Everyone coughs,
except those with cybernetic respirators. Nearly every
man out of his teens has at least one robotic limb.

At night one can stand anywhere in Galadon and
hear the shrieks of the tortured in their sleep.

I shriek myself awake.