My Giraffe (Zebra) Call is open!
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It was the day past the Autumnal Equinox, and the Emperor wasnât dead.
The Rothenkill Empire, a wide-spanning mass of bureaucrats, generals, courtiers, financiers, farmers, and clerks, waited with their collective breaths held.
The servants of the Emperor moved slowly and carefully, as if their heads might fall off if they went about their tasks too quickly, or if they said the wrong thing.
Everyone was waiting. Â Everyone was confused. Â And almost everyone was worried.
In the Rothenkill Empire, it was said that the Emperors fell with the leaves. Â And, like leaves, it was known that sometimes, the Emperors needed a little push, a helpful shove.
So where was the shove?
âThis is nor normal,â complained the Chief Financier in charge of budgets. âWhat are we going to do?  Someone should do something.â
âSomeone has to do something,â complained the Head Bureaucrat in charge of law distribution, re-writing, and deletion.
âWonât someone do something?â pleaded the General of the Imperial Armies.  âHeâs starting to give orders that make sense and canât be ignored!  What are we going to do if we canât ignore him?â
The Emperor, snug on his throne, pretended he could hear none of this. Â He hadnât ascended to the Poison Throne by looking or acting particularly bright, after all. Â None of his predecessors had, either, not in decades, possibly not in centuries.
âThe problem is,â muttered a person serving as a handmaiden, ânobody remembers how.â  Her grandmother had once helped off three emperors in a row, but that had been when you got a class of emperor that sometimes needed a shove.  âAnd with this one, Iâm not going to risk it.â
And the Emperor smiled as the empire – the mass of functionaries that had killed his father, his grandfather, and countless of his various uncles and cousins – began to crumble under its own confusion.
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