Prologue

Botched assassination attempt

For a few years now, he had slumbered. He was learning to become accustomed to his newly regained strength, and his recently expanded holdings. He had become a fearsome general, or so he thought, although he couldn't be quite sure. He had attempted to organise several mock battles between his army of the damend and the local peasantry, but for some reason they never seemed to be able to put up much of a fight ; his brilliant flanking manoeuvres ensured it was a matter of minutes before the butchery began and their remains were splattered all over the Scotch soil. Maybe he should begin training against adults. But his enthusiasm could hardly be held against him ; whereas before, he was merely the Duke of Edinburgh and its former suburbs, he now found himself at the head of a patch of land of some consequence, although it was mostly populated by Scots. So perhaps not of that much consequence. But the new land allowed him to swell the ranks of the army of the damned. As he strolled through the countryside on his usual trips, he found new candidates to join the mutilated army of the mutilators. He now believed himself ready to embark on his quest to regain his lost lands and his lost wife.

The voices of rage, sadism, and hatred remained, but a new one had joined in the chorus : Revenge. He knew her as Rhamnousia, and she was the voice of a crotchety old woman who spoke with a reptilian hiss. She reminded him of all he had lost : the Earldom of Merioneth, the Baronetcy of Greenwich. The Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. And all those blasted, useless colonies. And above all, Elizabeth of Windsor. She wasn't much, but she was his wife, she was of noble stock, and she was white, unlike all the Celtoids he seemed to be surrounded by. They were beyond worthless.

Although perhaps they were not as worthless as that boy. Philip was by now quite sure that his name was not, in fact, Dafydd. It seemed to him that it was something closer to Charles, but he wasn't sure, and it didn't matter. Although he did owe this boy a debt, in a way. He had showed Philip how enjoyable it was to indulge the voices, and he had to be given much of the credit for awakening them in the first place. Nevertheless, beyond feckless. He could not even rot right. Philip had given him a pair of wings and had displayed him in this manner so that all would see what an angel the boy had been, but it was a matter of days before he began shrivelling up, and all that work was wasted. Sculpting wasn't easy, Hatred fumed. Neither was taxidermy, but Philip was skilled enough that he was able to pick it up in a few weeks. It wasn't quite to a professional standard, but that didn't matter, and besides, no one would dare to tell him. And the beauty of the work was in the piping, and taxidermised mouths made comfortable enough loo seats.

As of late, however, the boy had bugged him, and he no longer found raining his old man's diarrhoea down his reconstituted digestive organs quite as satisfying as it had been in the early days. He couldn't remember quite why, or how, but he could remember the boy's mother, and he didn't think she would be pleased. There was no reason for him to care, though. Nevertheless the thought recurred as he diligently scoured his domains for new recruits.

The Duke of Edinburgh award had been a mediocre success, and a mild disappointment. Philip knew that even the Scotch could do better. Rhamnousia gave him the strength he needed to find new soldiers. Sometimes he wasn't quite sure why he bothered, but she would remind him ; of the prelapsarian bliss of his past life, of the lands that were left to conquer. She also reminded him of the Scotch men they had sent after him. They were weak, like much of their race. He had tried to bring out the strength in some of them, but he found that there was very little hope of achievement.

He remembered watching over them as they fumbled through the streets of Edinburgh. By now, he expected, they should have learned not to expect to roam Edinburgh clouded by secrecy. He kept a close eye on them as they approached, and when the time was right he struck. Well, the Scouts struck. He wasn't quite sure how that would work out, but it did. His military doctrine opposed using such weak individuals as anything other than cannon fodder, but in this situation he could indulge in some pointless carnage. Well, he could do that anyways, but now Sadism assured him it would be even more fun. Hatred and Revenge agreed.

As the first ones fell, he swooped on them. Rage told him to tear open their ribcages and he obliged. He wrested their hearts out and ate them as they were still beating. This was objectively when hearts were at their tastiest, he knew. They were fresh and still quite juicy ; the blood spilled out into his naked body in a way he found invigorating and quite arousing. Although claims of drinking Scotch blood facilitating engorgement were mere old's wives tales, Philip loved the taste, and above all the mouthfeel. Why is no one talking about he mouthfeel ?, Sadism chipped in, as the cries of the dying Scotch filled his ears like a beautiful Dvořák quartet. Once he was full, he gestured at his scouts to take the "men", such as they were, down to his dungeon, if any space was left. That was a joke ! He knew full well that there was. The whole city was his dungeon if need be. Although, in fairness, he only had one special dungeon. The one he kept the son loo in. He was looking forward to having his way with the men.

Before he could do this, however, a sense of regret poured in. He couldn't quite tell what had triggered it. He felt that perhaps he was not being quite pious. Although he wished to live his life as an honest servant of God, he did not believe in the Bible and had decided to follow his own interpretation. But something didn't quite feel right. Rage realised that maybe Philip was undergoing some sort of crisis of faith. Rage didn't know how that could happen, and Rage was furious. The voice ordered Philip to get his act together. He was the Head of the Anglican Church, for Christ's sake ! Philip had almost forgotten. As the rightful King of England, he was the rightful head of its state Church. Maybe it was time to bring the Church back into everyday life. He appointed himself Archbishop of Canterbury and pardoned himself for all his sins, whichever they may be. He resolved to fly the Anglican standard alongside his own at all times.

Now that was dealt with, he returned to the Scotch. As he had his fun, they revealed all they knew. Although they had come in with some notion of bravery, they had forgotten it quite quickly. In fairness, it tends to be quite easy to forget bravery when a hundred-and-twenty-something-year-old smothers you in his shatted pants. This was one of Philip's favourite new tricks, which he had learned from a stranded Yank. He liked to call it the fartyboard. He found this name quite hilarious ; it was right up there with the dread in the eyes of his victims as they saw him ready his equipment, and with the traumatised thousand-yard-stare they had once he was finished.

In the end, however, this was fruitless. The Scotch told him very little he did not already know. The "New Albans", as they called themselves, were terrified of him and would go to any lengths to attempt to stop him. How futile. He was not interested in their barren wasteland anyways. It was their blood he was after ! What an easy mistake to make. At any rate, Philip decided it was now time to give these clowns a little bit more attention than they were worth. He would begin the next phase in his great plan : Επιστράτευση.

When he put his mind to it, Philip was a brilliant administrator. The economy of his Duchy functioned smoothly ; it had to, as any defective elements were forcefully removed and compulsorily given the entrance test into the army of the damned. He worked on matching each and every Scotch advancement with one of his own. Besides, although modernity was not really his thing, he enjoyed the sight of the factory fumes. The overcrowding, the pollution, they all spoke to his soul. But it was not really the industry he was interested in.

It was now time for Philip to reorganise the army of the damned and ensure they were fit and ready for service. It was finally time to reap the fruits of his long recruitment campaign. Once this was ready, he would finally make his move.

There remained only one step : the crafting of a perfect battle uniform, one which could blend the fierceness of his native land's Evzones infantry with the comfort of the Scotch kilt, ensuring as it did the freshness of the nether regions, the value of which cannot be overstated on the battlefield. And by god, he had found it.

Prince Philip's traits are updated to follow the new trait system : He becomes a Tier 6 general with the traits “Expert Ambusher”, “Very Fearsome”, “Very Speedy”, “Very Inspiring Charger”, “Elite Infantry Captain”, “Very Proud”, “Very Brave”, “Expert Trickster”, “Extreme Night Owl”. Philip also becomes harder to kill

Roll for Philip's attempt to train and outfit his army, which currently stands at 3.710 tier 4 warriors and 3.710 tier 1 warriors :
1 : Keep the army in its current state
2-3 : Double the amount of Tier 1 warriors
4-6 : Triple the amount of Tier 1 warriors, upgrade them to Tier 2
7-14 : Tier 4 warriors become Tier 5, triple the amount of Tier 1 warriors and upgrade them to tier 2
15-17 : Double the amount of Tier 4 warriors, upgrade them to Tier 5, triple the amount of Tier 1 warriors 18-19 : Double the amount of Tier 4 warriors, upgrade them to Tier 5, sextuple the amount of Tier 1 warriors, a third of them become Tier 3 and another become Tier 2
20 : Multiply total amount of soldiers by three, they all become Tier 5. Philip gains an AP

Philip sends the Scots an ultimatum :

"Vile, wretched men of Scotland, if I may call you men at all :

You are in my way. Move out of it, and some of you may yet be spared.

I demand all of Northern England. I have not had a pasty in a century.

Comply or your cowardly rat's blood shall water my fields.

Philip of Glücksburg, Head of the Anglican Church, Duke of Edinburgh, Earl of Merioneth, Baron Greenwich, Prince of Denmark and Greece, King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, etc."

(Edited Philip's stats and nerfed his army somewhat)