A Most Unruly Gathering
By the Grace of God, I find myself in a time and place I cannot comprehend, a world of horseless carriages and towers that scrape the very heavens. Yet, some things are eternal, it seems, for today I witnessed what can only be described as a peasant uprising. They call it, as best as my ears can discern from their curious dialect, the “No Kings” protests. I have taken it upon myself to chronicle this event, lest its peculiar nature be lost to the annals of history, however strange this new history may be.
The crowd was a sea of bodies, not clad in the simple flax and wool of our serfs, but in bizarrely colorful and varied garments. They held not pitchforks nor scythes, but brightly painted squares of wood pulp and, most perplexingly, small, glowing scrying stones. Every person held one of these dark, polished rectangles, which shone with an inner light, and they stared into them with a devotion once reserved for holy relics. I can only surmise these are some new form of sorcery, perhaps a means of communicating with the protest’s unseen leaders.
The Curious Absence of Blade and Fire
What struck me as most peculiar about these “No Kings” protests was the profound lack of righteous fury. An uprising in my time is an affair of blood and iron. It is the burning of the Reeve’s manor, the storming of the castle gate. Here, there was much shouting, but no clashing of steel. The King’s Men—or this era’s equivalent, clad in dark blue uniforms—stood by with a stoic patience that I found unnerving. They did not draw their swords; they did not loose a single arrow into the crowd. It is a strange sort of rebellion that the authorities simply… permit. Perhaps this is a ritualized form of dissent, a civic pageant to allow the smallfolk to vent their humors before returning to their toil.
Baffling Battle Cries and Grievances
The chants of the mob were equally baffling. They did not cry for bread or for freedom from a cruel lord’s tithe. Instead, their grievances were abstract and confusing. I have recorded some of the most common cries I could decipher:
- “What do we want? Climate Justice! When do we want it? Now!” — I must confess, I do not know this Lady Justice of the Climate, but she must be a powerful saint to command such loyalty. The peasants demand her immediate intervention.
- “My Body, My Choice!” — A strange declaration of fealty. They are proclaiming that their bodies belong to a lord named “My Choice.” A peculiar name, to be sure, but perhaps he is a powerful baron in these lands.
- “No Kings, No Masters!” — This, at least, was clear. It is the core of the “No Kings” protests. A direct challenge to the divine order of society. And yet, without a king to depose or a master to slay, the words seemed to hang in the air, a threat with no target.
I leave this record with a heavy heart and a confused mind. This uprising has the passion of a proper revolt but none of the practicality. They use their glowing stones instead of stones for throwing. They shout for abstract concepts instead of for the head of the tax collector. If this is the future of rebellion, I fear the serfs will never win.