In earnest and wearied spirit I, Nigel Chelmsford, doth now wield a ponderous quill to parchment, recounting the somber tale of events that unfolded upon mine eyes whilst executing duties as Imperial Environmentalist, amid the fading hours of November, in the year 84 AB.
As many a learned reader of this tome shall already know, we were—right from the commencement—sent forth to our appointed duties upon the receipt of dire and unsettling tidings regarding the presence of Wallmouths within the tranquil Arcadian village of Lakesend.
Our concern was weighty; our reply: swift! Within a single day, a squadron of Imperial Airkeeper shuttles had gathered our roving command centre, chariots, and accoutrements into their vast embrace, and before long were transporting us to the hallowed assignation of our dutiful charge.
I cannot refrain from recollection; as the squadron cleaved the dense veil of cloud and unto our destined abode, there existed a fleeting lightening of the heart, a gift bestowed by the emerald undulations of the Treston valley upon each and every one of us. What bucolic splendour, the sort that solely fanciful strolls of the mind might otherwise bestow. Verily, we were descending upon the very core of our realm, knowledgeable reader, the epicentre of all that was splendid, righteous, and virtuous about Empiredeux.
But, alas, we could not indulge this vision for long, for preparatory labours were now urgently at hand. As the humble village awaited our arrival in a seeming state of suspension, we unfurled our mobile field centre in a chosen locale approximately four furlongs from its outer Shield Wall, excavated the requisite trenches, launched our vigilant drones from their holds, and lastly erected bio-shields to securely isolate our stationed militiamen and scholars from the perils of the open. By the early morn of the following day, we were poised to embark upon Lakesend.
In my lofty role as Principal Environmentalist, I traversed the realm with my loyal aide, Mr. Keller, and my ever-vigilant guardian. As we ventured through the expanse that lay between our dwelling and the hamlet, we found ourselves enveloped by the well-known cohort of Imperial Guard, tasked with the duty of conveying us from the village portals to the sturdy confines of our central bastion.
Upon our arrival, to our wonderment, neither mayor nor village official extended a greeting. The community lay tranquil in proximity, resembling a painted scene from afar, devoid of telltale signs of misfortune or harm to life and limb. Moreover, ascertaining the absence of immediate evidence pertaining to Wallmouths, we deduced that the infestation had taken root at some distant extremity of the settlement.
Thus, it seemed, as Mr. Keller opined, that we had intruded upon a village convened for their Sunday Service. The lingering suspicion persisted that venturing towards the village Church—standing but a few hundred yards from the gate—would unveil an assembly of the virtuous denizens, immersed in fervent prayer. I resolved that this avenue of investigation held merit, and so began our sojourn towards the hallowed precincts.
To our bewilderment, we failed to behold a throng of people there either; the local parish priest, Reverend John Cleenman, however, was present to greet our arrival. We welcomed this eventual meeting with this lone soul, and, in turn, were assured that our presence there had been yearned for by all.
Naturally, we inquired about the predicament that presently beset the village. The Reverend, a devout, courteous, and unassuming man, was able to corroborate the narrative that had brought us hither: There was indeed a substantial infestation of Wallmouths meandering throughout the village; initial occurrences reported as far back as early October, with instances proliferating swiftly along the Shield Wall, eventually spreading to nearby hedgerows, wells, roofs, and, more recently and more horrifyingly (here he reposed his telling to compose himself) manifesting inside the very dwellings themselves.
The benevolent Reverend, with an air of grace, proceeded to furnish particulars on the propagation of this dread, as recounted by his flock—a lamentable duty, dear reader, that I now find myself compelled to undertake, to share with you the distressing chronicles for your edification.
Mrs. Clarkson’s cottage, nestled at the remote end of the town, was the inaugural locus of internal infestation that found its way into the annals of distress. It entailed the disconcerting spectacle of a child-like mouth on the floor of her pantry, purportedly exclaiming, “Mommy! Where is my mommy!” at irregular intervals and intensities. The intensity of these tormented cries would escalate and proliferate in frequency each time Mrs. Clarkson ventured into her pantry, imposing upon her an overwhelming burden of anguish.
Even at this early juncture in the Reverend's narrative, we were astounded by a startling revelation, prompting us to beseech him for a pause and to inquire: Generally (if you would permit me a detour into technicality) Wallmouths, as a norm, cannot articulate proper English. While some may emit sounds in unintelligible auslandic tongues, more often than not they seem content to produce animalistic grunts or wails. Indeed, the overwhelming majority in the untamed expanses tend to exhibit a rather placid disposition: Their nuisance mostly stems from their unseemly and unfortunately copious salivation, tooth rot, and eventual malodorous gaseous exhalations (bad breath, as those who naively—and amusingly—humanize them insist on calling that particular assault on our olfactory sense). Alas, if left unattended and bereft of proper containment, a Wallmouth shall meet its demise, succumbing to the inexorable cycle of decay. Its noxious flesh becomes a haven for a host of loathsome creatures—maggots, slugs, spiders, and even serpents—engendering a ghastly spectacle within. Indeed, the consequences of an unchecked Wallmouth, its decaying form transformed into a breeding ground for a legion of repugnant creatures, pose a perilous threat to the very heart of villages and towns. Thusly potential for a deadly quagmire looms, heralding an urgent call for intervention and containment of pestilence rather than verbiage.
But not so for the Wallmouths of Lakesend, as attested by the Reverend! While many instances here did indulge their predilection for emitting unintelligible babble, numerous actually spoke the President's English. Indeed, English often put into such contorted and vile uses that one would hesitate to bestow such an auditory abomination the accreditation of "speech"—and so, as a discerning reader, you would forgive me if I use the term in its purely technical, if not necessarily appropriate, meaning. With your benevolent understanding, esteemed reader, I beseech your forgiveness for any distress that this dutiful narrative that I must perforce elaborate herein, may impart.
And so, while as of yet I have only grazed the surface of the incident at Mrs. Clarkson’s Cottage, with regret, I must now traverse the depths of Mrs. Clarkson's ordeal to impart upon you the true scale of the tragedy that gripped the souls of Lakesend's residents. Brace yourself, dear reader, for the descent into the abyss of despair is inevitable.
In possession of the fortitude characteristic of an enterprising and proud woman, Mrs. Clarkson, undeterred by recent widowhood and the advance of years, refused to endure the impertinent cries issuing forth from her pantry. Driven by desperation, she found within herself an uncommon strength, defying the expected limitations of her gender, and succeeded in toppling a washing machine upon the offending Wallmouth. This stratagem appeared to suppress the Wallmouth's incessant clamor to a certain extent, fostering a glimmer of hope in her that she might reclaim a modicum of the tranquility that had been mercilessly pilfered. Alas, her respite proved evanescent, as within a brief span of hours, a fresh Wallmouth materialized within the confines of her en-suite, a scant few meters distant from her bed. This particular specimen emitted incessant retching and choking sounds, persistently coughing and clearing its throat. Thus, poor Mrs. Clarkson found herself compelled to seek refuge in the benevolent hospitality of the Reverend, longing for a night's sleep and a respite to salvage some semblance of her otherwise customary sanity.
Thusly, dear reader, the information about the infestation infiltrating the interiors of residences reached the good Reverend, and regrettably, a deluge of such distressing accounts promptly ensued.
Disquiet in Lakesend had already commenced its subtle ascent. The denizens, as silent witnesses, beheld the Wallmouth infestation insidiously crawling through the village. A convocation of the town's inhabitants was summoned, yet the Mayor's presence was regrettably absent due to a proclaimed ailment. Whispers permeated the populace, suggesting that the Mayor's mental fortitude had already succumbed to the relentless presence of two Wallmouths within his abode. The Reverend expounded that these particular manifestations bore distinctly Negroid characteristics, conversing in a twisted English that exhibited a flagrant disrespect, addressing him solely as "brevs." Their demands, it seemed, were ceaseless, imploring the Mayor to furnish them with a peculiar herb for their insatiable desire to smoke.
In the course of my protracted audience with the Reverend, I dispatched Mr. Keller to conduct a hurried survey of the infestation and return with tidings of this disquiet. He pronounced the drone footage of the infestation as severe and profoundly unsettling: Many of the Wallmouths were indeed verbally abusive in extremis. I shall not inflict upon you, gentle reader, samplings of the base insults and crass vulgarities that escaped those foul lips, save to express that they were of an utterly reprehensible nature. Moreover, the malevolence extended beyond mere speech to their actions: Numerous locals had recounted incidents of physical attacks, and Mr. Keller himself had been unfortunate enough to find himself on the receiving end of such violence. In his ordeal he had been spat upon, and his cape had been bitten and shredded whenever he had ventured too close to the walls in the blighted precincts of the village.
In the course of his ordeal, he had gleaned that a certain Wallmouth, stationed near the school gates, kept sneezing, causing understandable anxiety among parents about the potential propagation of a flu epidemic. Other Wallmouths exhibited ceaseless crying or moaning, as he was apprised. Another had taken root inside a well, imbibing of all its water. There existed one that incessantly snapped and ground its teeth throughout the night. A few were renowned for loud whistling without discernible cause, unless the inopportune timing of such occurrences held any significance. A farmer, unfortunate in his plight, endured a Wallmouth emergence within his barn, emitting ceaseless and disconcertingly explicit female copulating noises that discomposed and agitated his livestock. Indeed, there existed a multitude of types, most hitherto unprecedented in any previous analysis or report that I have been privy to.
Mr. Keller affirmed, and was equally astounded, by the capacity of many in this novel breed of Wallmouths to converse in English, considering that, by his account, the visage of many of these Wallmouths had been anything but English. Some manifested as Negroid, others were adorned with a profusion of hair, some possessed brown and pouty features, while others expressed yellow and thin-lipped countenances. And their demeanor, too, exhibited a spectrum: Some were childlike and demure, others bombastic and deep-voiced, some could even be categorized as female, and yet others maintained what one could only describe as a familiar stiff-upper-lip disposition, entirely incongruous with their barbaric nature, or that of their offensive mutterings for that matter.
Upon the conclusion of Mr. Keller’s account, the Reverend, albeit reluctantly, extended an offer to introduce us to a Wallmouth that had most recently been discovered within the Holy Church itself, one that he found most disturbing—emphatically warning us—while indicating the way towards the altar. With a sense of dread that clung to our very souls, we beheld the horror that had grown forth from the sacred altar, reaching a height equivalent to that of an average adult's hips. Bearing the appearance of a Mediterranean barbarian’s moustachioed mouth, with full, partly effeminate lips and repellently mellifluous vocal mannerisms, it implored us to perform unnatural acts upon it—things of such vileness that even permissive scholarly records as this cannot bear to contain in their passages. In our hasty withdrawal, we sought refuge from the vile spectacle that desecrated the sanctity of the Holy Church. A somber respite ensued, where we, with heavy hearts, commiserated with the Reverend's plight and the unspeakable horror that had taken firm hold of Lakesend.
I inquired of the Reverend whether it would be possible to acquaint us with other ongoing incidents of a similar nature. Indeed, noble reader, it is within our sacred duty to meticulously record such nightmarish infestations for scholarly study, a solemn task that precedes their eventual elimination. The role of the Imperial Sealers, entrusted with the burden of quelling these abominations, extends beyond mere eradication to the annals of scholarly documentation. The troves of knowledge garnered from these harrowing ordeals serve not only to preserve the history of our struggles but also to fortify our understanding of the unholy machinations we face. Thus, with pen and parchment in hand, we venture into the abyss, chronicling the terror that has besieged Lakesend-on-Treston. The Reverend did not fail to direct us in this.
In our approach towards another calamitous incident, Lakesend's erstwhile veiled denizens unveiled themselves. Initially confined to glimpses of faces sheltered behind sealed windows, the doors eventually creaked ajar, exhaling the villagers' anxious whispers from the depths of their domiciles. It appeared that those fortunate enough to dwell in unblemished abodes were gripped by an apprehension that forbade them from venturing into the open air, as if to avoid unwittingly extending an invitation to the encroaching Wallmouth scourge. Yet, our presence appeared to inject a fortifying elixir into the frayed spirits of the populace. Gradually, individuals emerged from their abodes, shadowing our expedition at a discreet remove. We welcomed this silent entourage, for it was imperative that they recognized the Imperium as the vanguard of their welfare.
In veritable fashion, our inaugural sojourn led us to the dwelling of Mr. Cauldwell, a venerable elder and an unwavering buttress of the community. As revealed by the Reverend, Mr. Cauldwell had gallantly participated in the hallowed skirmishes of The Fish Wars. As the portal of his abode swung ajar to admit our presence, we found ourselves compelled to articulate our profound awe for the array of war mementos gracing his residence: the radiation mask, the yellow-gloved infantry exoskeleton, bearing the emblem of the Cross of St. George, meticulously etched upon its lustrous steel. A figure deserving of veneration, admiration, and unquestioning deference—a paragon, indeed, of Empiredeux's heroic annals.
As we were concluding the process of our introductions, a piercing eldritch laugh, laden with an otherworldly resonance, lanced across the air from the far wall of the living room. In startled surprise, we turned to face the source of this ghastly sound. All except Mr. Cauldwell, whose weary stare remained steadfast, seemingly impervious to the grotesque display unfolding before us. He sighed and graciously offered to prepare us some tea, suggesting that our group best relocate to the tranquility of the meticulously landscaped garden. Yet, for a fleeting moment, we were all ensnared by a previously overlooked Wallmouth, now agape and quivering in a grotesque and hateful fit of mockery, positioned right next to a printed and framed picture of the now-deceased Mrs. Cauldwell. It seemed to be laughing as if the Wallmouth possessed an attached body that was being vigorously tickled, its lips curled outward, bubbles frothing and popping under its wiggling tongue. The sound, a cacophony of derision, was almost physically painful, loud and hysterical as it was. It wasn't long before we were only too happy to embrace Mr. Cauldwell’s thoughtful suggestion and step out into the meticulously kept grounds that surrounded us, seeking refuge from the unsettling spectacle within.
Mr. Cauldwell, enveloped in a melancholic aura, imparted to us the ceaseless ordeal orchestrated by what he designated as "the one in the living room." A lamentation ensued as he disclosed the persistent nature of its derisive harangues, a ceaseless cacophony that would reverberate through the confines of his abode, subjecting its residents to an unrelenting auditory onslaught lasting hours on end. The insufferable burden of cohabiting with this relentless torment compelled him to contemplate the unthinkable—a prospect shared by a growing cohort within Lakesend—considering the pursuit of a permit to seek refuge in a neighboring village. A mournful timbre infused his voice as he bemoaned the imminent abandonment of the residence where he and his departed spouse had found solace and joy throughout the passage of numerous seasons.
Amidst my admiration for his fortitude, I expounded on the virtues befitting a man of the Imperium. I underscored the noble aspiration to tend to and, if need be, sacrifice one's life for the providentially assigned land, eschewing the desire to infringe upon or despoil the territories of fellow men. While extolling these principles, I hastened to reassure Mr. Cauldwell of our unwavering commitment to expunge the blight that beset his village. Thus, he could envisage concluding his days as the esteemed war hero that he undeniably embodied, emancipated from the prospect of becoming a migrant burden upon his compatriots.
Mr. Cauldwell, whose constitution boasted a more braced demeanor than the gentle Reverend Cleanman, further enlightened us on the state of the village and its ongoing reaction to the infestation. He described how, akin to Mrs. Clarkson, many residents endeavored to muffle or dissuade the Wallmouths from causing a nuisance.
Some residents resorted to unsophisticated approaches, attempting to silence the Wallmouths by clogging their throats with rags, soil, human waste, or even deceased animals. More extreme actions included pouring acids and drain cleaners into their grotesque maws or attempting to bash their teeth in with hammers, rocks, and bricks. Yet, these desperate measures often backfired, as the Wallmouths either intensified their cacophony or spawned additional grotesque entities around them, perpetuating the torment.
Mr. Kentson, the local tobacconist, had become so overwhelmed by the incessant noises that he resorted to violence in a fit of desperation. One day, driven to the brink of his sanity, he decided to take matters into his own hands and cut the tongue out from one of the offending Wallmouths. However, this impulsive act turned into a disastrous spectacle. The Wallmouth responded by gushing forth a constant stream of blood, at times pouring onto the floor and even spitting it out at the walls and, tragically, at Mr. Kentson himself. The resulting mayhem, along with the pools of blood, forced him to abandon his once-thriving business. The fear of a potential AIDS epidemic, coupled with the blood-stained area, led to Mr. Kentson's eventual bankruptcy, a grim consequence of his misguided attempt to quell the Wallmouth menace.
Some locals had, apparently, been less destructive in their experimentation. Mr. Green’s son (or daughter, according to Mr. Cauldwell's snide commentary as he recounted) had saved some of his pudding from dinner and had fed it to a loud, corpulent Wallmouth that was growing in their attic and incessantly proclaiming its hunger. Initially, the feeding seemed to appease it, granting the Greens a few days of peace and fostering a glimmer of hope for their household to return to some semblance of normalcy.
The Greens, in their experiment of peculiar kindness, had pondered whether simple Christian acts could assuage the Wallmouth infestation. They hoped that their son's feeding gestures might be the key to pacifying the creature. However, their optimism proved short-lived. The Wallmouth, despite being temporarily appeased, soon reverted to its voracious demands, bellowing, "Feed me more!" and protesting, "This ain’t vegan!" with escalating fervor.
Grappling with the realization that the horror might transcend the bounds of Christian decency, they reluctantly acknowledged the need for a more drastic solution. Adding to their misfortune, young Master Green had a narrow escape, narrowly avoiding having his foot nearly chewed off by another Wallmouth lurking beneath the dense lawn in their garden. The constant fear of a possible Rabies epidemic now loomed over their household and neighbors.
I felt as if we had seen and heard enough, nearing the limits of our ability to digest and record such horrors, when we were interrupted by a cry of anguish piercing the air, shattering the uneasy calm that had settled upon Lakesend. The distressed peasant, a stout toiler of the land, beckoned us urgently to a location of unspeakable offense. Our steps quickened as we followed the desperate cries, and to our horror, the wailing brought us to the very heart of Lakesend, to the mast that proudly bore the sovereign Imperial Flag, the emblem of our dominion. But on this occasion, there was no patriotic shiver, only one of sheer horror; for the flag mast itself seemed to be screaming.
Verily, I proclaimed without delay that a low-level reconnaissance drone should ascend to gain vantage from the pinnacle of the village center. As we suspected, the drone's eyes beheld a Wallmouth perched atop the mast, defiantly shouting toward the heavens. A woman's mouth, it seemed, with teeth bared and tongue extended, unleashed a scream seemingly fueled by an eternal fiery anger that showed no sign of abating. There was an eerie quality to it, as if the very air sustained its unending howl, unburdened by the need for replenishment. The people in the village center crossed themselves, and children wept in fear as the soul-tearing howling reverberated through the calm country airs of Lakesend, chilling all to the bone.
I must humbly confess, esteemed reader, that even my resolute countenance quivered in the face of this unearthly spectacle. The emblem of our sovereignty, the Imperial Flag itself, unfurled its fabric to release a spine-chilling wail. In that haunting moment, the air grew dense with an eerie disquiet, and I, too, found the very act of drawing breath a challenge, as if the unsettling echoes of that otherworldly scream reverberated through the very fabric of my being.
Regaining my composure, I resolved that scholarly investigation could yield no further fruits in this dire circumstance. Swiftly, I turned to my slate, beckoning every available Sealer to dispatch their expertise to Lakesend. Scholarly pursuits, I firmly concluded, must now yield to the imperative of immediate action. The sanity and future well-being of the people of Lakesend rested solely upon the robustness of our response.
Indeed, there lay a potent brew of disgust, outrage, and shame within my very being at the perfidy of these English-speaking Wallmouths, sage reader. This sank beyond offense; these were traitors, each and every one. The Sealers would ensure that order was restored and tranquility prevails.
My heart did leap for joy as the first Sealer pod floated gracefully over the Shield Wall towards the summit of Lakesend’s nightmarish screaming mast. It rejoiced further as I could not help but notice the operator’s eagerness, evidenced by a wide grin barely concealed beneath his facial protective gear.
With the nozzle of a molten lead dispenser clutched in one hand and an injection filled with nerve-scorching paralytic in the other, he positioned himself deliberately and carefully near the apex of the mast. "Not a moment too soon would we all be free of these unholy screams," I thought. We attentively watched the drone’s camera view on my slate.
In went the needle, penetrating the lips, the inside of the cheeks, the tongue, and down the back of the Wallmouth’s throat. As soon as it ceased moving, the Sealer deftly shoved the dispenser nozzle down its throat and filled it with molten lead. Soon, the brimming lead burned and overflowed through the Wallmouth’s cheeks, cracking its jaw and dropping chunks of it into the Sealer’s re-collection bin. Only a truncated cavity of cracked bone and paralyzed, scorched flesh remained, all drowned in hardening lead. Finally, he sealed it with an airtight orange plastic membrane.
After this procedure the Wallmouth malefactor would never again twitch or multiply; it was now considered sealed. This is the sole known method that can guarantee the permanent sealing of such mischievous entities. I am heartened to report that it proved effective upon this new breed of English-speaking subjects as well.
I shall unabashedly confess, dear reader, that on that particular day, a surge of ineffable patriotic pride coursed through my being as I observed my charges executing their assigned duties with unyielding precision. Though my heart bore the weight of the harrowing tales recounted by the beleaguered residents of Lakesend, it was, nevertheless, buoyed by the uplifting spectacle unfolding before me—the sealing of these uniquely strange and treasonous Wallmouths. In savouring the meticulous liberation of yet another corner of our Imperium, I found solace in the unwavering dedication of those under my charge.
On many an occasion, we were heartened by the active participation of the locals in our endeavours. As an amusing aside, many children would gleefully kick and stomp on the orange seals of freshly-sealed Wallmouths to ensure that they had properly “packed it in,” as they would say. The local adults, too, kept everyone’s spirits high during the course of this enterprise, each one contributing in their own unique capacity: The elderly graciously served tea and biscuits when it was time for our Sealers to briefly repose, while village personalities like Mr. Hicks, the butcher, injected a touch of folksy humour. On one memorable occasion, he demanded to know (begging your pardon, cultured reader) where everyone was now supposed to defecate “now that we’d be plugging all the holes.”
And, lo! In the interval the mayor was located, albeit in a state of great unease and fragility. The Reverend Cleanman, by our leave, was granted the stewardship of local administration until such time as the mayor may restore his wits, we pray, or until decreed otherwise by the Imperium.
It transpired over the course of nearly two days, a laborious odyssey that saw every member of the environmentalist team exceed the boundaries of their assigned duties. Special accolades are unequivocally due to Mr. Keller and the Principal Sealer Coordinators, who demonstrated unparalleled commitment and resilience in the face of an unprecedented challenge.
With the triumphant completion of yet another mission, our endeavors swiftly transitioned to the meticulous dismantling of our mobile base. As we carefully stowed away the drones and shields (a moment of reflection to once again underscore our profound gratitude for the invaluable services rendered by the Imperial Airkeepers) in the wake of this elaborate process, we embarked on a triumphant return to the Imperial Capital, our heads held high in the glow of accomplishment.
Despite the horrors I had heard and witnessed on this foray, and which, gentle reader, I have regretfully burdened you with, I once again could not restrain an involuntary shiver of pure pride upon our departure. As I beheld the glory and beauty of the Treston valley receding from under our shuttle window, the indomitable spirit of our Imperium radiated through me, overshadowing the unsettling tales that now lingered in my thoughts.
Yet, despite the passage of time and the distance now placed between myself and the haunting scenes of Lakesend, the uniqueness of this infestation and its haunting intensity persistently occupy my contemplations. I harbor a concern that the tale may not have reached its conclusive chapter, and that we may, indeed, not have witnessed the final curtain fall on this particularly treacherous breed of Wallmouth.
In sacrificing the pursuit of a more profound scholarly analysis at the altar of immediate horrors, I do not lament the sealing of those English-speaking Wallmouths. Their utterances, offensive, traitorous, and putrid, warranted the decisive action taken. However, a lingering question echoes in the recesses of my mind: What if some were to be subjected to interrogation? This notion, though bordering on the unsane, parallels the once-inconceivable idea of a Wallmouth articulating in English prior to the Lakesend infestation. Our dedicated staff is now diligently crafting contingencies, anticipating the potential resurgence of a similar or identical strain of Wallmouth infestation. In this pursuit, we may unravel the mysteries of their novel treachery and further deepen our understanding.
When all is said and done, the Empire has achieved a triumph of significant import in Lakesend, a victory that, though minor in scope, resonates grandly in its implications. We, the stalwart defenders, conveyed an unwavering message to these Wallmouths: we were unyielding, undaunted, and unafraid. No matter how much of our living space they sought to seize, regardless of the extent of their invasion into our homelands, we stood firm. They may have encroached upon our once serene green hills and valleys, yet the heart and essence of our Empire pulsate resolutely behind our venerable Shield Walls. It perspires steadfastly in our industrious workhouses, sings its praises in our village churches, and fortifies our formidable Global Empire, centered around the impervious iron-fisted fortress that is the Isle of Man—a realm where no Wallmouth shall ever draw breath.
Should even more Wallmouths dare to assail our virtuous populace, what of it? We shall brook none of their horrors and derision. Their piercing cries, their unintelligible utterances, and their impertinence shall find no haven, for they can partake of molten lead in any language they so choose. And though false whispers and rumors may circulate, suggesting the potential fall of additional provinces to this plague, consider the radiant triumphs such as Lakesend-on-Treston. There, noble souls resisted, drawing a resolute line and pouring molten lead into anything that dared to trespass upon our land, our people, and our way of life.
As for me, my pen no longer bears the burden of weariness; rather, it dances upon the parchment, rekindling the very fire that forges my iron will into an ever-victorious blade and shield for the Empire. I shall persist in the fight, and I shall emerge triumphant. We, united, shall taste victory again and again. So it shall ever be, dear reader.
…and the AI girls go:
In Lakesend's tranquil embrace, shadows stirred,
Wallmouths vile — in English! Absurd.
Heroes of Empiredeux took the field,
To banish all these creatures wield.
Cauldwell, war veteran, valiant and sage,
Bore witness to a Wallmouth's dark outrage.
Sealers, with lead and courage ablaze,
Fought the infestation, a patriotic craze.
Green's son tried kindness, feeding the beast,
Yet hunger grew, and the ordeal increased.
Kentson's drastic act brought chaos and strife,
Blood-stained streets, the cost of a desperate life.
In Treston's valley, a grotesque choir,
Wallmouths babbled in a language dire.
Sealers, with valor, sealed each grotesque maw,
Restoring peace, and Imperial Law.
Yet whispers linger, unresolved, untold,
The Wallmouth's treachery, a saga unfolds.
In victories and horrors, Lakesend's plight,
An Empire stands strong, ready for the fight.
Through trials and horrors, the Imperium stands,
Sealing the Wallmouths with resolute hands.
A triumph in Lakesend, a tale to tell,
Of courage, lead, and a land's fierce spell.