((A bit of history on Richilieu's last name.))

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Intermission: The Origin of a God

Throughout the annals of history, far before the European mainland developed into the E.U., conflict defined all interaction between countries, power being all the motivation that many nobles needed to throw their conscripted soldiers into war, and no war defines this horrible aspect of history as much as the Hundred Years' War, an intense power struggle over the French throne between the Houses of Valois and Plantagenet. The first period of the conflict, the Edwardian War, named for King Edward III of England's astounding victories in the face of severe opposition, carried with it perhaps some of the most quizzically interesting battles.

While the period is very obviously known for King Edward III's conquests, there was reportedly another famed commander on the side of the House of Valois, whose charisma was rumored to rouse even the dead from their sleep in order to fight for him. Renowned for his tactics in psychological warfare, he was legendary for his skills in diplomacy, and many battles were likely avoided as a result of his silver tongue. However, truly, the most bizarre story surrounding this man, the late Baron, Clovis de Lyons Le Dieu (Lit. Clovis of Lyons the God), involves his ascension to the noble line and the battle surrounding it.

Blood.

Corpses. Everywhere. One couldn't glance downward for a moment for fear of finding one's entrails cut out, let alone only to find your war buddy decapitated on the ground next to you. What had used to be a luscious green landscape had now been turned into a muddy battlefield, the only foliage now dotting its horizon being the slain corpses of those lost in battle. Even the sky appeared to weep at the loss of so much life, turning a crimson red as the day slowly gave way to the night.

Their commander had recently ordered a retreat, their forces having been both outnumbered and outmatched by their Britannian counterparts, the damned lion seal almost ironically entwined with their precious fleur de lis, insulting their very heritage. This man, this Britannian, Edward III; he believed he was rightful heir to the French throne? He believed that the French, a proud people, would merely roll over as he meandered in, seeking their power and their riches?

Although their hearts said no, it appeared that the only sane move their mind would allow them to make was to run. The Britannians were certainly their betters, even if only in number, so how could they hope to defeat them? Even if their pride refused a surrender, the Britannians would refuse a French victory.

They could see the Britannians advancing on them from the horizon. Their commander obviously believed he could dispose of their forces by the end of the night. The French commander having been slain during the initial combat, their forces were left unorganized and inevitably slain, only a small portion of the original platoon remaining in a vaguely fortified line.

It was then that a young conscript, roughly twenty-five years of age, broke formation, walking deliberately in front of the soldiers and spinning around to face them, releasing his head from his helmet to reveal a rather scraggly mess of hair, sticky with sweat and dirt and blood, and fiery brown eyes, burning with passion and pride.

"My friends!" He began, sweeping his right arm in a wide arc in front of him, discarding his helmet to the side as he did. "Fear not death, as death is all that awaits us should we succumb to the rule of a Britannian! We are Frenchmen! We are proud! But most importantly, we are rightful owners of the throne!"

Another sweeping motion, this time with his left. It left him with both arms extended to his sides, hair beginning to billow in a sudden wind. "As soon as we surrender, we are dead! Perhaps not as physical beings, but as men! We will become the whipped dogs of a foreign aristocracy, submitted to nothing but discrimination and agony. The natural order is not to have a Britannian presiding over the French, but to have a Frenchman! The natural order is not to merely accept this fate, but to combat it! The natural order is not to lose, but to win! Not for ourselves, but for all that is right in this world!"

"So fear not, my friends." Yet more wind came, blowing the youth's hair and causing it to whip across his face. Lightening struck on the horizon, green-tinted storm clouds taking form over the opposing forces.

"For God is on our side."

"Attack!"

At that moment, a funnel cloud began forming, spiraling down as dust and debris colored it a sickly black. Britannian soldiers panicked. Some of them even dropped to their knees and prayed to the same God Clovis had deemed against them. A grisly, if not satisfying, sight met the French as their charge began, Britannian soldiers being picked up into the storm and disappearing into the murky depths of its wind, several becoming cut in twain by the very fleur de lis bearing shields that so ironically mocked their opponents' French culture.

The very shields that were now protecting France.

Disturbed by this supernatural change of events, the Britannian commander ordered a mass retreat, not from the French that were now slaughtering the distracted and distressed English, but from the tornado that had so timefully assaulted their forces. Cavalry fled and trampled over friendly units in their frantic vie for escape, the twister's tale erratically decimating random Britannian forces.

It was for this that Clovis de Lyons was knighted and made nobility, for calling down the wrath of God himself. Truly, what a spectacle it must have been, his speech of God's justice being nothing but augmented by the timely appearance of nature's most destructive force. French forces easily dispatched of the remaining units with no further casualties, and it was reported that a feast was held in Clovis' honor, supplied despite their meager reserves. He was immediately elected leader of that platoon, and later dubbed a knight of honor, eventually becoming true nobility as he ascended to the title of Baron.

Truly an interesting tale and one I'm very fond of reiterating to a fellow intellectual. I hope that this recount has assissted you in your research, Mr. Richilieiu LeDieu.

From the desk of,
Professor Marquis LeNoir
Department of European History