The Tale of Lord Golden Tongue and the Vanishing Treasury

Once upon a time, in the ancient land of Serbianna, there existed a beautiful realm divided into several provinces. Each province was governed by a noble lord who tended to the spiritual and worldly needs of the people. For many years, the Eastern Province flourished under the wise stewardship of Lord Wiseheart the Steady, whose prudent governance brought peace and prosperity to all.

When Lord Wiseheart was called to tend to distant lands, the people awaited their new lord with hopeful hearts. Great was their joy when Lord Golden Tongue arrived, for his reputation preceded him. "He has managed grand estates in the Southern Isles!" the people whispered excitedly. "He speaks with such eloquence that even the ancient scholars are impressed," others proclaimed.

"Truly," said the elders of the village of Clevelandia, "he knows our ways and our history. Our treasury will remain secure, our traditions honored, and our children will learn the ancient songs of our ancestors."

But alas, as the seasons changed, so too did the fortunes of the Eastern Province.

The Curious Case of the Dwindling Coffers

It began with small curiosities. The provincial treasurer would open the great ledger books only to find entries that made little sense. Golden coins that had been counted on Michaelmas Eve seemed to have wandered away by St. Sava's Day.

When the village councils inquired about these wandering coins, Lord Golden Tongue would smile benevolently. "Fear not, good people," he would say, his voice smooth as honey, "all is well in our province."

Yet whispers grew when messengers were seen rushing between provinces, carrying small chests in the dead of night. It seemed that whenever the council was set to inspect the treasury, coins would mysteriously reappear—only to vanish again once the council's attention turned elsewhere.

A clever observer might have noticed that these inspections were always followed by Lord Golden Tongue dispatching hasty messages to Lord Nikolaj of the Western Province or Lady Gregoriana of the Southern Hills, thanking them for their "temporary mutual aid agreements."

The Grand Pavilion That Never Was

As questions about the treasury grew more persistent, Lord Golden Tongue announced a magnificent plan. "My devoted subjects," he proclaimed from his ornate balcony, "we shall build a Grand Pavilion where all may gather to celebrate our traditions and feast together in harmony!"

The people rejoiced at this vision. Farmers donated the proceeds from their harvests. Merchants contributed profits from their trade. Elderly widows even offered precious family heirlooms to fund this glorious project.

Each Sunday, Lord Golden Tongue would display gorgeous architectural drawings of the Pavilion, with its soaring towers and golden domes. "Construction begins any day now," he assured the increasingly puzzled villagers, month after month, year after year.

Yet where the Pavilion should have stood, there remained only empty meadow, visited occasionally by Lord Golden Tongue's specially appointed "building inspectors" who would nod sagely while examining the vacant land.

When young Marininija, the newly elected village council leader, respectfully inquired about seeing the Pavilion's accounting ledgers, she found herself mysteriously removed from the council. When she persisted, rumors began to circulate about her character—rumors that seemed to originate from those closest to Lord Golden Tongue.

The Mysterious Forest Harvest

As resources grew scarcer, Lord Golden Tongue turned his attention to the ancient forest that had stood since time immemorial beside the sacred monastery. "The trees must be harvested," he declared, "for their timber has reached peak value!"

Workers felled mighty oaks and stately pines, hauling them away on creaking wagons. Lord Golden Tongue spoke of a special treasury account where the forest's bounty—said to be worth 200,000 golden coins—was safely stored.

Yet when the village accountants requested to view this special account, they were told that the ledger was "being transcribed by special scribes" or "temporarily on loan to the Royal Archives."

Meanwhile, the monastery's annual tax to the kingdom remained unpaid, growing larger with each passing season until it reached the alarming sum of 235,000 golden coins. When reminded of this debt, Lord Golden Tongue would wave dismissively. "The Royal Tax Collectors understand our situation," he would say. "They have granted us special dispensation during these challenging times."

The Tax Collectors, interestingly, seemed unaware of this special arrangement.

The Circle of Trust

Most curious of all was how Lord Golden Tongue governed. While previous lords had listened to the entire village council, he preferred the counsel of a select few—his godmother Lady Stankorious, who rarely attended village gatherings but somehow knew of decisions before they were announced; Brother Nektarius, who performed ceremonies without invitation; and the DeChoir couple, who didn't even live in the province but frequently whispered in Lord Golden Tongue's ear.

Also prominent in this inner circle was Baron Dragonson, the keeper of the village seal, and his daughter Lady Katalina. It was said that when Lady Katalina penned letters to Lord Golden Tongue—often bypassing the village scribe and proper protocols—her words were treated as unquestionable truth, even when dozens of villagers testified to contrary facts. After dramatically renouncing her position on the village council, Lady Katalina mysteriously reappeared in Lord Golden Tongue's chambers, receiving new authority despite the confusion she had caused throughout the realm.

When these whispers reached him, Lord Golden Tongue would nod gravely and pronounce judgments, often without verifying their truth. Strangely, those who questioned these judgments found themselves removed from their positions, while those who whispered were rewarded with greater influence.

The Inevitable Reckoning

As seasons turned to years, the Eastern Province's coffers emptied entirely. Workers who tended the provincial estates went unpaid. Buildings fell into disrepair. Even the sacred vessels needed for ceremonies could not be replaced when broken.

The neighboring provinces, weary of unfulfilled promises to repay their "temporary mutual aid," closed their borders to Lord Golden Tongue's messengers. The Grand Pavilion remained nothing but elaborate drawings. The special forest treasury account remained as elusive as morning mist.

Finally, the villagers of Clevelandia gathered in secret, for Lord Golden Tongue had forbidden meetings without his presence. "We must appeal to the High King," they resolved. "For if we remain silent, not only our treasury but our very traditions and governance will vanish like morning dew."

And so messengers were dispatched to the distant High King, carrying carefully documented scrolls and testimonies sealed with wax and ribbon. Whether the High King would heed their appeal, only time would tell.

The villagers waited, hopeful yet anxious, knowing that sometimes fairy tales end happily...and sometimes they serve as cautionary legends for future generations.

~ The End ~

(Or perhaps, merely the beginning of the next chapter...)