Corey MacDonald sat proudly in his stuffed leather chair, beaming at the three men who sat neatly across from him in his warmly-lit office. He puffed on an elaborate wooden pipe which bore the crest of the MacDonald of Clanranald family; a castle, with an arm holding a sword coming out of it. If Corey wasn’t the Chieftain of the MacDonald family, the crest would be a crown with a cross, but Corey was not a pure MacDonald, he was a MacDonald of Clanranald; his efforts over the decades allowed him and his close family to carry such weight; the bloody hillside fighting and laborious marches in the valleys decades prior allowed him to enjoy this very moment of victory. Corey MacDonald had finally gotten what he wanted: absolute power. The three commanders sat opposite to him, waiting patiently for what he had to say — or order. The old monarch pulled the pipe from his mouth and thoroughly exhaled.

“I always hated the family get-togethers.”, He said gravely, “They make me feel like less of what I really am — It’s as though I had to explain the simplest things to toddlers. My close kin does not know how to rule, and it angers me.”

The three men sat stoically, silently acknowledging that they potentially fell within those parameters of being toddlers to the Chieftain. He took another puff from his pipe and continued.

“You three, however, do not involve yourselves with petty politics that I am forced to do. You follow orders, and you follow them well.”

Corey MacDonald set his smoldering pipe down and sat up in his chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the large hardwood desk.

“Nobody these days knows what toil is. My kin sit in their manors and chat with their subjects about nothing. There is no urgency in their voice and they have nowhere to be, and they enjoy that — having nothing to do all day but read the morning’s paper and talk to themselves like children with their little wooden toys… It makes me sick to think what my ancestors — God rest their souls — would think of us and how we live, unknowing of the expertise of battle and kinship… But you three realize… You know that there is no strategy to hedonism, and you resent that; that there is nothing to overcome… To conquer. You boys know that glory is what drives great leaders — not indulgence and gluttony and pride.”

The despot took off his reading glasses and carefully analyzed the unflinching faces of the three commanders, who sat uniformed and ready for action. He let out a long, gravelly exhale and leaned back in his chair.

“Old men can only live for so long, and I fear that my days of labor are finally catching up to me… I can no longer go outside without a coat, nor can I hold a rifle any longer. I am functionally useless past my knowledge of finance, so that is what I do every day; I sit in this damned study and pore over the bills of our Estate, waiting for the day when I can name a suitable heir and finally die knowing my legacy will be carried on… But that has not happened yet, and my letters from Junior grow more worrying. The boy is not in the business of the Estate, he wants to bring welfare to our subjects, and with it ‘freedom and democracy’.”

There was a certain tone of disappointment in Corey’s voice, as he knew his only heir — his first grandson — had been brainwashed by the English to care more about ‘the people’ than his own flesh and blood.

“But I grow old, and I cannot delay the inevitable any longer.”

Corey looked at the ceiling with raised eyebrows and sat silently for a moment…

“You three are who will rule my kingdom after I depart… And perhaps you can start right now, and I can act as the treasurer.”

[Martial Law activated, Conscription Mandatory, Women Equal Rights, and Policing Corrupt]