Jason Reynarde Of Roundhead Regimente of Anti-Royalist Pike, it seems it is now for me to raise thee to fearful summons. Oh, I know you thought you were calling me to rise up again, but in fact, this time it is I who summon thee.
You were not entirely honest with me on the night you invoked certain incantations from the unsacred forbidden Necromonicon.
That you were able to acquire such rare and dangerous text is highly commendable, Your study of the period of the English Civil War seems to have led you to my tracing through analysis of witchcraft and Satanic trials of the period. Though I am not a representative of God or Satan but of much older Eldrich Lords of misrule and Chaos, your discovery of my resting place in the lost tombs of R'lyeh gives you great credit. and your claimed ambition to call upon myself and my kind from a our long deathly sleep seemed equally praiseworthy.
However, a number of discrepancies have come to light that makes me question your true motivation.
You doubtless recall drawing me forth from the bowels of the Earth that had been a sea when I took my slumber, long before the thunder lizards came to your lands. Undoubtedly you will remember vividly telling me that you sought victory over the forces of King Charles The First who had given you sore defeat and severely weakened your resolve for victory. You did tell me, did you not of your choice of weapon being the elongated pike staff rather than the one-shot rifle known as musket favoured by others in the various brigades of Royalist and Roundhead armies alike?
That you wished me to bring sour and bitter defeat upon the King’s forces beyond the kind you have faced yourself in previous skirmishes, came to suit my own purposes too. A kingdom so in disarray with Brother taking the life of Brother and a King reduced to raising an army to recapture his own throne and crown struck myself and my brothers as the time for us to march ourselves. I did pledge, did I not to take my place in the spirit of your own battle staff, from which I would first observe the battle in progress and then, strike out, turning the battle-pike into a tendril and tentacle arm of myself, and infecting other pike with my spawn so that they would do likewise enabling our forces to move forward as a land-based octopus like entity, crushing the opposition in our path as we went?
That was our plan, was it not? And I believe it was a good plan at that. You may therefore wonder and lament why I failed to materialize and commit any such promised mischief upon the enemy lined up so easily for the slaughter before me. I feel in one sense as though I should apologize, but then your omission of certain details means that any such apology on my part would be groundless.
My observations told me quickly that something was amiss. First of all, the pikemen I saw approaching, were being instructed to raise their pikes high rather than point them at your own men's entrails. The pikes were blunted, and I distinctly heard one man telling another that if one person of either side should fall over, a cry of ‘Man down’ should be uttered at which point the brutal engagement would be broken off to enable the soldiers to regroup with their own men.
‘What manner of gallant, noble warfare is this?" I asked myself in puzzlement. Then I noticed that the musketeers were firing shot as predicted, but that when men fell over as if dead, they then waited but a few moments before getting back up to rejoin battle. I was deeply impressed that the mortal race before me, who had cracked the ancient Necromantic writings of Lord Cthulu himself had also mastered the arcane art of self-resurrection. Intrigued, I began to wonder if capture of the Throne of England n for our leader, Yog-Soggoth might not be as easy as anticipated. I looked around me, eye invisible that I was upon the tip of your pike, and witnessed a crowd of onlookers witnessing this decisive battle of Naseby that you invited me to. The people brought their children, paid modest admission fees gladly, and waved carnival flags, treating the deaths and self-resurrections as cause of some rejoicing and interest. I have seen many wars on many worlds, including my own, many aeons ago. Never have I before witnessed one in which tourists are freely invited to get so close to the action. I was considering your world one for study before immediate conquest, but then I realized my mistakes and your deceptions. The blank-shot musket fire should have given me a vital clue in itself. Though such gunfire would not have killed me, musket fire would have hurt as a bee sting would hurt you. I felt nothing because there was nothing to hear beyond the sound and fury.
It was by chance that I espied a carelessly discarded programme flyer that disclosed that the year was that of an anniversary re-enactment of the true battle of Naseby hundreds of years before, which had occurred when no one had the notion of inviting me, or the means by which to access the Necromonicon.
Instead, I was woken up by a selfish, stupid pikeman who had played the battle out for sport, and proved a poor loser, nothing more. I was tempted to garotte you there and then with your own intestines, but I decided to bide my time and seek council from my brethren kind.
Now you return to invoke me again, for a further pretend battle, sealing the knot of my noose upon your own soul in the process. This time the enactment is of the battle at Marston Moor which took place even before that which you have already called upon me for.
Your deception and limited motivation sadly displease me. I must therefore cast you down into the sleep that is death at R'lyeh, in the bowels of the Earth. Yes, even as we speak the ground bubbles, and swallows you slowly. You will be conscious throughout your captivity. It is a blind world, of cold clammy viscous mire, teeming with things that crawl, claw, bite and sting. I envy you for I miss it already. I however, am now awake and free from the restraints of such slumber. I shall take your outward form. I will master this deceptive art of re-enactment, and bide my time until your World is again in such a true confusion of civil war, and then I will make true my promise to myself and become the true ruler of this weak and pathetic mortal dimension.
Give my regards to the Old Gods who will haunt your dreams as they haunted mine. They will not let your sleep become true death. Farewell, from the future King Of England.
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