Chief Advisor Verun moved swiftly to intercept the king’s curious stride towards the balcony.  Preparing him for this wouldn’t be easy, Verun thought as he steeled his will.

“Your Majesty, I must speak with you.”

“Can it wait?” King Oram asked distractedly, peering past his trusted friend towards the dim cacophony from beyond the balcony.

“I’m afraid it’s most urgent,” Verun insisted, gently taking the king’s elbow and steering him away from the balcony as he continued “It’s about that young warrior from the Outlands…”

“The Chosen One, yes, what about him?” the king asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the rising din.

“If your highness recalls, the prophecy stated he would bring freedom to our kingdom,” Verun explained, “but some, including myself, worried about the vagueness of this prediction.”

“I remember,” the king chuckled, “You worry over everything, my old friend, first the high price of grain and now this old prophecy.”

“It’s funny you should mention those together, your highness,” Verun squirmed, “As you know, the Chosen One is from…humble origins…”

“A peasant, yes, I remember.”

“…and it seems that background, combined with some…problems in the current system have led him to…well, ‘re-interpret’ the prophecy.”

“What do you mean, ‘re-interpret’?” the king asked, knowing well that his advisors cautious words could only mean a situation that had gotten out of hand, “Does this mean he’s no longer intent on dealing with the orc menace?”

“Perhaps it would be best if your Majesty were to see directly,” Verun reluctantly gestured to the balcony.  There could be no hiding it, not with the commotion they were making, so at least now the king was a bit more prepared.  As they stepped out, their gazes swept the sea of angry, armed peasants, orc and human alike, and came to rest on the young man standing before them, clad in the gleaming Armor of Irulia and gesturing with the Sword of Destiny.  In spite of the distance, the sword’s magic ensured that all could hear, king and peasant alike.

“And I say it is time to cast off these gilded leeches, these aristocratic parasites!  They take our food and goods, and give us what?  Taxes! Constant wars! They treat us like cattle, see us as disposable, even their laws say that we are not equal to them!  Well, I say enough!”

The assembled peasants erupted into angry shouts, drowning him out for a moment before the wave of sound passed.

“They sit, fat and happy, eating from their golden plates, but who made that food?  Who made that plate?  Who makes their clothes, their homes, their weapons?  Whose blood do they drain to feed their opulence and greed? Ours!

“But, my comrades, my brothers, that is also our power!  We control the farms! We control the forges!  We control the looms and the quarries!  And we do not need them!

“Together we shall build a fair and just society, man and orc, living together, working together for the good of all!  All equal, none above the rest!  From each according to his ability, and to each according to his needs!  The fruits of our labor shall be ours to enjoy!

“Brothers, comrades, workers, UNITE! You have nothing to lose but your chains!”

As the crowd cheered and surged through the castle gates, easily overpowering the guards with their sheer numbers, the king and advisor watched in shock.  Finally, King Oram spoke.

“Oh, dral…”

“’Oh, dral’ indeed, your Majesty…”