Lord Reginald Pembroke III, a stout and pompous lord of the manor, sat upon his throne, his velvet cloak billowing around him like a dark cloud.
His vassals, a gaggle of sniveling sycophants, clustered at his feet, their beady eyes fixed upon his every word.
“Verily, good serfs,” Lord Reginald began, his voice dripping with disdain, “I shall decree a new era of... of... FEUDAL CHAOS!
“Hear me, ye wretched peasants! The land shall be divided into parcels of land, held by those who can wield a sword, a shield, or a well-placed fart!
“The strong shall rule, the weak shall serve! The peasants shall toil, the nobles shall... well, the nobles shall probably just lounge about and collect tribute in the form of artisanal cheeses and fine linens!
“But fear not, good people! For in this new era of Feudal Chaos, even the lowliest of serfs may rise to greatness! Provided, of course, one can wield a decent broadsword, or has the backing of a powerful patron lord... or can convincingly feign a limp!
Read more on the art of Feigned Weakness, a guide for the ambitious and the faint of heart!
And for the love of all that is holy, do not even think about wearing those plebeian tunics!, a scathing review of the latest in Feudal Fashion