A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1525 - 1525: A Tiger - Part 4

The wave of negative emotion was an instantaneous thing. The peasantry were ruckus in their cries of disgust. They raised their fists, and jeered like a mob. That they could be so riled, but still so under control seemed a contradiction. Whenever so many thousands gathered like that, on a common emotion, it always seemed like a mere small matter of time before they would explode.

The noblemen expressed in their own sterner ways, with shakes of the head, and looks of the utmost discontent, though they did not sully themselves by standing and moving as overtly as the peasantry did.

"Indeed, the arsonists, and the other killers that were sent, to lay waste to our servants, and to whomever they could get their hands on – they came by the same hand," Oliver said. "An attack on an institution of the most Stormfront. A tournament to celebrate strength, and to increase it. What holds more strongly to the ideals of the First King than that? We have in our ranks the Great General Blackwell, and the General Karstly, the General Blackthorn, the General Skullic. We have all the Generals and heroes of the campaign in the Verna. Here stands the foremost of Stormfront military achievement in the past century. And Stormfront is entirely military achievement. It would not be a stretch to say that the heart of the Stormfront beats firmly here."

"There we have Queen Asabel Pendragon. Her lands ran parallel to the war. Her fledgling Silver Kingdom, and she still showed the strong spirit of a Stormfront monarch, and saw us supported in our efforts," Oliver said. "Gentlemen, I ask you, what is more Stormfront than this current gathering of men? What could we not overcome with this number? Are ye not the mighty? Have you not seen the feats of overwhelm performed today, and all the days before? Have we not erected new heroes amongst ourselves? There stands Gar, gentlemen! A peasant! A hero, strong enough to lay marks upon me, who ought be far above such blades, if one were to judge entirely on rank. Look, does our natural order not see itself upturned? Have we not seen our lower classes raise their blades, and scratch at the clouds upon which we stand?"

So overwhelming was Oliver's budding charisma that, even the nobility, and all the Lords, that ought to have been against such attacks on their class structure, found themselves nodding along with them. For there was an ideal that they all held, as Stormfront men, above it all, and Oliver made it his own.

"What subverts the order that we were taught to believe in?" Oliver asked. "That mere birth would determine strength? How is it that peasant blades, without training, can reach we, who have been given the boons of rank, and the responsibility it brings? I will tell you: it is a matter of environment. For what we have created here, in these short few days, is a thing of danger. For this right here, gentlemen, is the Stormfront. These fields, this tiny town, these flowing plains, barely a handful of miles in its size – this is the Stormfront," Oliver said.

If we one wished to have stopped him, they ought to have done long ago. Hod could do nothing but bear witness. With each passing moment, Oliver grew more and more comfortable in his role. Oliver Patrick had not been ready when the moment had come, but now, with each passing moment, with thousands upon thousands of eyes upon him, Oliver was moulded by their expectations. It was not merely a one-way street – Oliver did not have strength to function entirely as an oppressor, binding all to his will. There was a searching nature to his words. He reached out with his fingers, and touched and touched their hearts. They informed him, indirectly, of the path that they themselves wished to go.

There was not a soul in the tournament grounds that was left elsewhere. Like moths to the flame, as the speech had gone on, more and more had gathered to listen to Oliver Patrick speak. A deep, throbbing anger hung over the place. Oliver's speech grew more and more aggressive, like a growl. He gesticulated with a clenched fist, and thundered against his bloodied and sliced chestplate to articulate his points.

The men around him, in Verdant, and the other Patrick soldiers, only accented the image of their Lord. They stood with proud approval, their jaw's tight, their eyes full of fire. It was difficult for Hod to remember quite when they had drawn their weapons, but there was not a sword in the scabbard amongst that small handful. Oliver spoke of war, and already, his men seemed to be preparing for it.

Gar had managed to stand as well, his wound bandaged. He leaned upon a man's shoulder, and he listened to Oliver, with wide, intoxicated eyes, like a cat staring into a fire. His gaze did not flicker for even a second. All with a beating heart, and a soul to go along with it, could not flinch away from Oliver Patrick then.

"THIS IS THE STORMFRONT!" Oliver Patrick repeated again, thundering the line, as he pointed at the ground beneath his feet. "This soil, that our people toil, that our shepherds run their sheep on, that we have bled upon this day, and the tournament days before this, and conquered in blood, this is the Stormfront. The Stormfront is not the clean streets of the Capital. The Stormfront is not peace, and quiet corruption. The Stormfront is the sword in the hand, the Stormfront is the horseman in the street. The Stormfront is a Tiger and a Conqueror for a King. The old prophecies speak to us, gentlemen. Our country finds itself in stagnation. It has lost its way. It has been blackened by the years, and only the honest spirit of our warrior past can see it cured. Field by field, we will purify it. We erect a new country, in the Stormfront, and we call it by the same name. Though we who say it, we mean it differently. Our world is different to theirs. They are suffocated by the achievements of our ancestors – they have been unable to match them. The weight of their burden has blackened them. We will free them from its yolk."