Federalists! Devolutionists! Unionists! Loyalists – Royalists! You proud, dedicated, determined many! The Fifty-Five! The Two Million! The Silent Majority! Proud Caledonians and Proud Albionites All! You came out in force on the 18th day of the Ninth Month, bearing your Union Flags aloft – some in your hands, others in the secret spirit in your heart – to put a stop to the Tide of Nationalism. You came out in force on the 18th day of the Ninth Month, to finish the tribalism that poisons Caledonian politics by crushing the despised Nationalists. You came out in force on the 18th day of the Ninth Month, to show that you were not afraid of the Nationalists – that their lies about an independent paradise would not deceive you from the lurid nightmarish reality of Separatism.
For Caledonia needed you, friends. Did you not hear the pleas of your family, your kin, your friends in Anglia and Cymru and Ulster, begging you not to become foreigners? Did you not see our cultural heroes exalt you, celebrate you, write solemn pledges asking you to remain Albionites? Did you not behold all our mightiest leaders amass and march forth to your greatest city, so they may pay homage? Even the Kings of Albion promised to grant wishes and magic powers to those Caledonians who chose to remain subject. Yet even with every daily scripture, every sage, dozens of oligarchs, hundreds of guildmasters, and the leaders of entire nations aiding us, it was as nothing compared to the insidious might of the Great Chieftain’s cult of personality. Singers, jesters, scribes, doctors, historians, tycoons, the great and the good, the high and the mighty, all formed a Phalanx of Solidarity against the Nationalist Hordes. Yet even then, it was not enough, for they were but mortals against monsters: what could be done against the dread fury of the Cybernats?
What you needed… were heroes.
And heroes you had! Knights of the Red Rose evoking memories of their ancestors, setting aside their decades-old blood feuds with the brutal Order of the Hardworking Oak and treacherous Guild of the Liberty Bird for the greater good, for an evil even more terrible than anything they dreamt of was at the door. For to the Red Roses, Separatism was a more terrible threat to Caledonia than the Reign of the Iron Lady; to the Oakmen, it was more ruinous than the Iron Chancellor; to the Liberty Birds, it was a greater danger than the Iron Curtain. Rose, Oak, and Bird made a pact, banded together to face down this dread menace, to save Caledonia from certain doom. The ascetic monks of the Record of the Days wrote a Holy Vow – written upon the Parchment of Keir in the Blood of Bevan with the Quill of Attlee- signed by the Lords of those orders to serve as an unbreakable contract.
And so you came, following your heroes into the fray, ensuring that you would not yield to the tyranny of Bute House! Despite the vast number in the Nationalist Horde – 1.6 million, a thousand and six hundred thousands – our numbers were the greater, as 2 million Proud Scots rushed over the hills and glens to the defense of Their Nation. The clamour was deafening as millions of feet trod the earth, millions of strokes made their marks, millions of eyes fixed in grim determination. The battle raged long into the night, until the final count of the dead. The Nationalist forces were overwhelmed. Their leader, the Great Chieftain of West Lothian, seeing the battle was lost, fell upon his sword! The Nationalists were defeated! Albion Triumphed! Never again would this land be blighted by the eldritch spectre of division and secession!
You thought this would end the plague of Nationalism, but it continues to grow, to infest new minds with the poison of separatism. You thought this would end the threat of the Nationalists, but their numbers have grown by tens of thousands – faster than all our forces combined! You thought overthrowing the Great Chieftain would surely destroy him, but he’s still there – not leading from behind, but alongside his former lieutenants! “But you LOST!” you cry: “it’s over, the People Have Spoken, there is nothing else to say or do – why are you still fighting?” you exclaim. What is happening? It seems this is not the final battle in this war at all – you will have to gather your armies, consolidate your powers, summon your heroes, to fight the next battle. Surely your champions will aid you once again!
Where are your heroes now?
I speak of the people who begged, pleaded, for you to stay. They wrote, they spoke, they sang, they paid, all to ensure they would never have to call you foreign. They appealed to you through their heralds; they urged you to use your head and not your heart; they wrought great weapons of love with which to cleave to your souls. Monthly, weekly, daily, they implored you not to follow the Pied Piper of Linlithgow to your doom. Yet. I ask you: where are those people now? Why have their cries fallen silent following the battle? Where have they gone?
I speak of the leaders who warned you of the terrors that await in the event of Separatism. The leader of the Free Colonies hoped to see Albion remain strong; the commandant of Espanya warned of Caledonia’s future apart; the Black Gold trader who claimed our reserves were running out. They promised great things for Caledonia in the event of victory, but they too are absent. I ask you: where are those leaders now?
I speak of the Holy Vow of the Record of the Days. This great magic, this mighty magic, blasted against the cantrips and counterspells of the Separatists, a Hallowed Ward against the predations of the Dark Forces of Tory which would ensure the Magic Powers of Devolution were bequeathed to the Caledonians. Yet where is this Holy Vow? The Chief Scribe of the Record of the Days claims it was written by the Order; the Order claims it was the Chief Scribe. It seems no-one wishes to claim ownership of this great ward’s power, for surely the battle may have been lost without it. I ask you: where is the Vow now?
I speak of your leader in Caledonia, Johann of Anderston. The Grand Raconteur of Glasgow, Adjudicator of the Stairheid Rammy, the Paladin of Pollok, Captain of the Red Rose’s Caledonian Chapter, the Caduceus of the Nationalist Plague, who resolved to become Guardian of Caledonia after the inevitable defeat of the Tyrant of Bute and his disciples, and gave a solemn pledge that she would ensure that the Magic Powers of Devolution – indeed, the Maximum Magic – would be granted to the Caledonians. I ask you: where is she now?
I speak of your leader of the Rose-Oak-Bird alliance, Alistair of Cockaigne. The Squire of Kirkaldy, Saviour of Albion’s Banks, Master of Recessions, said to have enough strength to flip four houses, who shaved his Beard of Socialism to embrace the Salt and Pepper of Blairism, and opened the portal to Neverendum Land. He, too, promised to deliver the Magic Powers of Devolution. I ask you: where is he now?
I speak of your leader in the Great Wen, Gordon of Giffnock. The Kirkman of Kirkaldy, the Thunderer of Fife, Giver of Gold, Predator of Pensions, Scourge of Budgets, Vanquisher of Boom and Bust, once Grandmaster of the Red Rose, who promised he would personally bestow the Magic Powers of Devolution upon the heads of every man, woman and child of Caledonia, even the little babies. I ask you: where is he now?
Have your champions left you in the dark, in the blacker shadow of the monsters they claimed they would fight for you? Where is the Future Guardian of Caledonia to halt the advance of the Arch-Nationalist’s lieutenant, now Master of the Separatists? Where is the Man Who Saved Albion’s Banks to stop the Wizard of Edinburgh from dragging Albion’s economy into the gutter with Caledonia’s? Where is The Man Who Saved The Union at its darkest hour, where the stump that once bore a single head has sprouted forth fifty thousands heads anew? And are those truly the monsters you need to fear?
I see the Grand Tyrant of Eton, emboldened to continue on his quest to extricate Albion from another union, his rank hypocrisy oblivious. I see the Pauper Chancellor, untrained, untalented, unthinking, who grins with relish at the thought of slicing more and more riches from the country’s treasure for him and his friends. I see all our most cherished treasures being devoured in a morosophy of liberticide, our children made oblations to the false gods of Aescetic Pleonexia. I see the creatures, the fiends, the horrors which have wrought untold misery upon countless souls continue unabated while your heroes did nothing to stop them – while your heroes aided them. Joined them.
The Nationalists know exactly where their heroes are: they are beside them, still fighting, still believing in their cause. Their leader may no longer command them, but he has not given up the fight. None of them have. Can you say the same of your champions, Unionists?
I ask you…
Where are your heroes now?