The man's name was Mark. He was quite simply, and in the most basic of terms, a farmer. Every day, the man woke up before dawn, tossed on some old clothes, and got to work. No matter how hard he worked, there was always someone yelling at him from horseback. Sometimes, that person would target another man and kill him. This was normal for the workers of the Burgstallenn manor.
Now, the Burgstallenns were a somewhat minor noble family in the land of Germania. They normally weren't too harsh on their commoners, but that can be subjective in definition. Now, these nobles were masters of ice. They loved it, so much so, that they ordered everything on the rocks.
Anyway, enough of the nobles, one night the man named Mark dreamt of a land where all men were equal. No one man was subjective to another. Money was irrelevant. The perfect society…so in the morning he began to write about it. How one could achieve this utopia.
Now, you may be wondering how Mark could write, after all, most commoners shouldn't be literate…right? Wrong, there are simply too many for a single noble to have that level of control, it is for this very reason that most nobles actually don't care about how literate their workers are. As long as they bring home the bacon. This was a point that Mark made; if all workers united, they would be unstoppable.
After a couple months of work, the book was finished, and Mark began to give copies away to his fellow workers. In a week's time, the book had spread around the known world, and things seemed to be going smoothly for Mark…that is, until a noble found out, and had Mark killed overnight.
His ideas were left forgotten to time.
United We Stand.
One century later, during the reign of the Young Queen Henrietta, in the land of Tristain.
The summer sun cruelly beat down onto the nearly bare back of a poor man cutting some wheat. A bead of sweat slowly rolled down the bridge of his nose, before falling onto the dry soil below. A slight breeze rolled through the wheat fields, the feel of heaven to a man without shade; unfortunately, it brought the stench of cows with it. But the man did not care, in fact, he didn't even pick up the scent, he had spent far too long on the farm to care.
Another man came over, who was on horseback. This meant hell was near. This man carried a gun in one hand, and a whip in the other.
"What's ye bloody problem, mate?! Git bloody workin' or I'm gon' make ye!" The man snarled. His exotic accent meant he had some origins in the floating islands of Albion. Perhaps he had been a criminal at one point. Though to the worker, he still seemed like one.
"Yessir…" the worker cautiously said as he attempted to pick up speed, something near impossible in this awful heat, but it was better than picking a fight that you couldn't win.
A couple minutes later, the worker brushed his arm across his sweat caked forehead, and looked back. The man on horseback was gone, allowing him to slow down to a reasonable pace and breathe a sigh of relief.
He glanced up towards the sun. It was already approaching the horizon. Soon this day would be over, and he would have a short break before having to return to this torture again. Perhaps it would be a wise move to use a noose. Nobody would care, really. He wouldn't be the first, nor would he be the last to do so.
He sighed once more. He really wasn't brave enough for such an act. Who knows what lies beyond the veil?
He looked down at the sickle in his hand. Oh, how simple it would be to slash the throats of his torturers. It was impossible, of course. He was one man, and a commoner to boot. He couldn't take on an army.
Another hour of grueling work passed with little incident, of course the worker barely payed attention to anything beside his own work. Someone blew a trumpet, signaling the end of a day. The worker sighed as he stood up and stretched.
"Oh, welcome home Mr. Droitueax," someone said as soon as he closed the door of his cabin. "Your wife has made some pig legs. She'd be here but Sir Leclaire is busy doing—you know what with her."
The worker—Droitueax, wearily nodded his head. "Not much I can do about that, Mr. Andre…" He collapsed onto a chair in front of the table, with a sigh, and started on a hefty chunk of pork.
He went to bed quickly after that, there was no real point in waiting for his wife; she was too pretty for the noble knight to kill. He had to worry more about himself.
As per usual, he had no dreams.
Droitueax woke up before dawn, washed his face and tossed on some old clothes that were barely rags. He ate an apple, and washed it down with some cow's milk, before stepping outside to meet hell once more.
Something was a tad off, the worker realized, but he didn't know what. But as he cut away at wheat and grass, it hit him like a sack of bricks—today was cooler than normal. That meant only one thing, fall was coming. This did anything but lift his mood; if fall was coming, then that meant that it would soon begin to snow, and the workers of the Manor of Leclaire rarely had enough firewood to last two months.
He groaned; hell was about to freeze over and he was completely unprepared.
"Oi, ye cheeky bugger. What ye bloody groaning' 'bout? Be 'appy mate, it's nice out, ney?" He stifled the urge to groan once more, there was no point arguing with this guy. It was all too easy for him to say, with his proud warhorse, fine straw hat and baggy summer chainmail.
"Nothin', sir. Just cut myself a lil' bit on a thorn, don't worry." It was an easy lie, there was a small thorn bush to his right.
"Alright, git back to work, ney more bloody chitchat. I don't care if ye lost ye bloody arm, work!" The man cracked his whip for effect, it was rather convincing and Droitueax immediately worked at an impossible pace. He heard a horse trot off and sighed with relief.
It was now noon, and someone blew a trumpet twice to signify that it was now lunch. Quickly, Droitueax fell into line. Today, like everyday, they got cold stew and a stale piece of bread. Now, you had to be quick if you wanted bread, and some workers even went without a meal. Not like the nobles would care, of course. They were always too busy whipping someone, or bringing a lady to their room in private.
The rest of the day passed smoothly, much to the relief of the worker, and that night he went to bed with his wife.
The next afternoon, he received the grim news that an entire town had been burnt down by pissed nobles. Seems that they didn't sell someone important something at the right price. That of course means, that a noble didn't want to have to pay for something…how was this even allowed?
Droitueax sighed. The Queen and her royal advisors didn't care, that's how.
He wiped an arm across his sweat caked forehead. Even though it was cooler now, he somehow didn't feel it, and the sun was still as cruel as ever. Nothing really ever changes, it seemed.
That night he was met with a surprise.
"Mr. Droitueax, come, look what I have dug up in secret," Mr. Andre said, his usually calm and mellow voice was now riddled with excitement.
Detroitueax sat at the table, an eyebrow raised in interest.
"Honey, don't listen to the fool," his wife called from the kitchen, "what he has will only get us killed."
Detroitueax tiredly shrugged and nodded to Mr. Andre who placed a curious book onto the table. Its cover was red, and in the center was a yellow hammer and sickle. The Workers' Problem was its title.
He opened it up.
It is well known, and quite obvious that the working class is abused beyond what can even be considered traditional torture. In all regards, it would be better to be a traitor of the Noble state than a commoner. You would at least get a swift death.
But truly, this oppression, while truly awful, is the worker's biggest strength; in it, we are a band of brothers—comrades. We experience a sense of camaraderie that no Noble can experience with his brother. We are, in a sense, one being…yet we stand divided…why? If we were to unite as one being, as previously stated we are, no man could stop us—what I mean to say, is if the working class was to unite, we could rise up against our oppressors.
I call my idea 'communism', for we are a community. The hammer and sickle; the sign of our oppression, can be our biggest weapon, comrades.
The worker looked down at the open book, eyes wide. He was wrong, things did change, and they were about to. He hated to disagree with his wife, who did make a good point, but he faced oppression everyday.
"We are a band of brothers…" he muttered as he rubbed his chin.
Much to his wife's disappointment, he stayed up all night analyzing the book.