DISCLAIMER: We wished we owned everything here. Then we could have published this and gotten rich off it. Unfortunately, we don't. Most of the things you know and recognise belong to richer people than us.

PROLOGUE - PART II: CIVIL WAR

Who am I? I am God.

Who am I? The man who could have made or sunk this nation.

I walk past the famed elven glades of Rivendell. Very few men are privileged to know the location of this once great forest. The leaves shimmer faintly in the morning light, as if trying to remind me how beautiful the Wastelands once were. As if trying to nudge me to rise up and embrace the legends that revolve around this place.

I walk past the shimmering leaves, past the glade and onto the front porch of an ancient courtyard – torn, with debris flung around but still hanging onto a faint semblance of majesty.

A golden-haired figure awaits me at the end of a bridge hanging over a deep abyss. The abyss was once an overflowing river – the deity of an entire race, but it's gone now. The bridge merely hangs morosely over a black darkness and the figure upon it greets me with open arms.

A long forgotten memory. The falling leaves of a forgotten past. What are we trying to cling onto here?

Indeed, who am I?

- L-Man, Chapter 2 of "Who am I? – The Self Realization Fetish"

***

The war never came as a surprise… not to the people of the Wastelands. They were used to wars. They were used to surviving, to fighting for existence, holding out against their worst nightmares.

What truly killed Nudeland was the profound sense of disappointment that the war brought along as an unwelcome gift. Great things were expected of the Marauders. Great things.

Instead, all they brought was more of the same.

"It was a disappointing thought – almost like we'd peeled away the bright yellow skin of a luscious, fruity-looking banana only to reveal the rotten fruit inside."

- The Chimp (ref. Monkey Business, Chapter One – The Anatomy of a Republic, Page 18)

The General OTMS, now on the run from accusations of plagiarism, assembled a coalition which he named after himself. Most historians contend that OTMS did so merely to satisfy his immense ego. This thought was prevalent amongst the Nudeland Republican Army – essentially the prevailing government's puppet force – and was greatly emphasized by several Generals within the army, including Skander Bander himself.

"Why do they name themselves after their General? Why do you not call yourselves Skander Bander's Elite Guards or something equally inane? It's not because they are loyal to their General that they name themselves after him; it's because they know they aren't fighting for a worthy cause."

- Skander Bander I (ref. Speeches from the First War)

OTMS himself had different views though.

"Why were they all so quick to jump to conclusions about me? Does my army voluntarily calling itself… modeling itself after my own name automatically make me an egomaniac? Isn't a name merely a label and nothing more? Isn't a name supposed to be a sort of unifying slogan for an army… a rallying point and nothing more? We were the true NRA… the true Nudeland Republican Army. We were the ones fighting for what Nudeland truly stood for. However, two armies calling themselves the same thing could've led to a LOT of confusion. After all, what's in a name anyway?"

- General OTMS (ref. Memoirs of an Idealist, Page 108)

OTMS' army, regardless of what they called themselves, was derogatively referred to as Clothed Collaborators. Yet, they acquitted themselves on the battlefield well.

Very well, indeed.

The battlefield.

Rivers of blood. Mounds of flesh. Valleys reverberating with the cries of widowed women and orphaned children. "A necessary evil," Lord Voldemort called it (ref. Secret Wars by Warlock Brian Bendis, Chapter 3: Whispered Conversations). Necessary? Perhaps. Evil? Most definitely.

The war tore a country apart – a fledgling nation that could have been so much more. A golden era that never was. Nudeland had barely established itself, when the Wastelands reared its ancient head again, denying hope to its peace-loving natives and spawning monsters everywhere – even in the hearts of the Sentients.

The Sentients – that's what they called themselves – elves, dwarves, humans, wizards, meta-humans. So much for sentience. In the end, they merely proved to be just another boring chapter in a long history of violence.

It all began with one skirmish.

"DAY 1

OTMS fled. Like the coward that he was, he fled. It wasn't like plagiarism was a severe charge anyway. He would only have been impeached… and perhaps he'd have to live a life of perpetual dishonor. But he didn't have to flee. He could have faced it like a man. He called it a strategic retreat. But coating the term – "GTFO" – with other sugary words still doesn't convince me that he was a man that could have led an entire nation and done it well. What OTMS did was to flee. One of the guards betrayed us and apparently supplied the General with horses and a day's rations. And the worst part is – we didn't even know until a day after OTMS was placed under house arrest. Perhaps the house arrest in and of itself was a stupid error."

- Segestus I (The Spartan Way, Chapter One – The Way of Cowards)

"DAY 3

OTMS fled. We followed his tracks across the River Cumnus right into the Ancient Forest. There was an entire squad of us – twenty one men, fully armed and on horseback. We were perhaps a few leagues – not more than two days upon horseback - into the forest when the tracks ended. And then we heard the noise. Arrows. Arrows zipping through the leaves. Most of the arrows bounced off our armor, yet MacMillan fell to a shrewdly aimed missile. He started spouting a fountain out of his throat and fell right off his horse. We raised our shields, but our mounts had all collapsed. OTMS came out, his face covered by his mask… I knew it was OTMS – I'd heard his voice in his all too notorious speech only three days ago. His voice was terrible although not as terrifying as the posse behind him.

'Kill them,' he said… or whispered. I can't really remember. I was having a hard time controlling my bladder release.

They advanced upon us. I fled. Most of us did. There were too many of them. And there was something about them that was… unnerving. They were not armed. They merely wore robes and one held a wooden stick in his hand. But the scary thing was that they all wore these weird masks – silvery-grey in color. What was with this sudden fetish for masks anyway?

Either way, we fled. The arrows were proof enough that the entire forest was crawling with Clothed Collaborator snipers. However, the arrows were not seen again.

They followed us. The men with the robes and silver masks. They fired at us with bolts of light. We did not know who they were. We did not know WHAT they were. Our armors were useless. Our swords were useless. Our shields were torn into bits of scrap metal as if they were made of paper. I heard rather than saw my comrades collapse behind me.

And all of a sudden, they had abandoned chase.

Sadistic fucks.

They wanted to spare me. Pass on the message, as it were. The message? Oh, that was simple – 'Don't mess with the General.' Or something along those lines.

I heard a laugh – a high, cold laughter… it made my hair stand on end. I had never heard such evil… emanate from the mouths of men. It wasn't natural. It wasn't. Oh my God, it wasn't meant to be.

What were they? They were not men. Not men, not men…"

- Lieutenant John Little (ref. Interrogation Transcript AY-2051-FEB-27-1156-AM)

"Underneath their masks, underneath their veneer of sophistication, underneath all that absurd superiority, underneath all that… magic, underneath it all – they were only men. Morons who were controlled by one man – Lord Voldemort. And the worst part? Lord Voldemort was slowly losing it. Going insane, batty, psychotic. Moron."

- OTMS (ref. Memoirs of an Idealist, Pg 179)

" 'Why did I support the man?' they asked me, like the faithless vermin that they were, 'Why would I support a muggle?'

Fools. All of them – fools. Mere tools to be controlled by my hand, my superior intellect, my power. Yes… the power.

However, sometimes even Lord Voldemort does not have all the answers. Sometimes, even a god has to stoop to become a demi-god.

We are trapped in this cursed dimension. No matter. My plans for the invasion of the real magical world have merely been delayed. Merely one more obstacle that seeks to keep Lord Voldemort from his birthright. An obstacle just like Harry Potter.

Harry Potter.

I know he is here. I can smell his scent… his scar talks to me. It leaves a trail of such intoxicating dark magic. And that thought heartens me. Harry Potter – the poor, little half-blood – trapped in this dimension – a dimension torn by war.

Which brings me to the first point – Why am I supporting a muggle?

I am not. The man who calls himself OTMS – he has stumbled upon power. Too much power. That accursed ring. The Ring of Sauron – he calls it. It gives him power. He is the man in charge here… it is only too clear. And contrary to popular opinion, Lord Voldemort is not a bloodthirsty monster out to conquer all the worlds he stumbles across. I merely seek my birthright. Nothing shall keep me from it.

Until I depart from this dimension… until that day, I shall support OTMS. Or perhaps not.

Severus should be getting in touch with the opposition soon.

Lord Voldemort leaves no space for defeat."

- Lord Voldemort (ref. Secret Speeches to the Death Eaters – chronicled by Draco Malfoy)

This last speech – oft quoted by the sentient denizens that inhabit Nudeland – is famous not because of its content, but because it is the very last piece of a very obscure period in Nudeland's brief history. All known and documented history ends abruptly with this short transcript of a speech. Unfortunately, all of the documents that referred to the Civil War in Nudeland are now in locations unknown – either destroyed or gathering dust in ancient archives.

It's an irony perhaps – another cruel joke by the powers that be – that the only major event in the short history of Nudeland is the least documented. Oh, we have plenty of documents dealing with the past history and nobility of families, with mundane government affairs and day-to-day court cases. The only reliable accounts available about the Civil War are 'Memoirs of an Idealist' by General OTMS (although this text should be treated as a VERY dubious source) and fragments of other books written by the other great leaders… and the not so great leaders of Nudeland.

Pity. We need to learn from our mistakes more than ever now.

For even as the last remnants of sentient life are being systematically exterminated by a superior, godlike power we had never before seen in our lifetimes, we need to stand together and fight. Unfortunately, united is far as we can get from the present hopeless situation.

Even now… we have amongst us warring generals and quarrelling chieftains, trying desperately to maintain an illusion of power over those foolish enough to follow them. Deluding themselves into thinking that death does not literally stand at their doorsteps… fooling themselves into believing in their seeming immortality.

"Perhaps Nudeland wasn't meant to be ruled by man. Perhaps this land does not deserve it. Perhaps we do not deserve it.

Perhaps the Wastelands are its natural state. Its stable state. Its equilibrium, fulcrum, centre of gravity… its centre of mass.

I'm getting old now. My hands do not hold the pen the way they did a hundred years ago.

I feel death coming.

And unfortunately, it's not old age.

I might have welcomed age. I might have welcomed a peaceful death – a burial among kings within the Sacred Caves… amongst all the other great men who sought to tame this land.

But it's not that kind of death.

It's the Reaper. Brutally hacking down souls with his cleaver… with his fiery scythe. Or perhaps it's Death herself – red hair askew, dark eyes shining with an unholy light, claws extended as if reaching out to establish a claim upon your very life and soul.

I can hear the footsteps, the searing lash of a whip of fire, the roar that could send a thousand men sprawling and the voice that could freeze the very fires of hell. I hear him coming. The daemon-god approaches.

Gothmog is coming."

- OTMS (ref. Memoirs of an Idealist, Epilogue)

***

End

Taken from "Death throes of a dying nation"

An essay by Dr Cornelius, Last of the Historians of Nudeland – released from the private archives of the Headman of the Village of Rolling Stone at the funeral of Dr Cornelius.