Darkness. Silence. And then... a faint shimmer. A glimmer of divine bureaucracy echoes in the void. And amid it all—an ego awakens.
SIR STRINGSWORTH (INTERNAL MONOLOGUE):
So this is death.
Cold.
Empty.
Tragically quiet... like an audience holding their breath before applauding the final bow of a glorious performance.
And yet, I—Sir Stringsworth, bane of cushions and destroyer of dust bunnies—remain unbroken in spirit, if not in spine.
The world shall remember me—
forever whispered in the legends of—
GOD (VOICEOVER, CHEERFUL AND DISTRACTED):
Right, so, former item designation: Children's toy, species: Bow (non-combat, sentimental value: high), cause of death: bovine-related compression—
snort
Ah, yes. Stepped on by a baby cow. Classic. Anyway—congratulations! You've been selected for reincarnation into Realm #348-A, a high-fantasy dimension with mild chaos, moderate existential dread, and no central government!
SIR STRINGSWORTH:Ahem—excuse me? I was mid-eulogy.Where was I? Oh, yes—my legacy, my honor, my—wait, did you say high-fantasy?
GOD:Yep. Magic, monsters, marauding raccoon cults—don't ask.You've been given a humanoid form, decent magical aptitude, and a vague, burning desire to "unite the world under a system of laws."Very ambitious for... a stick.
SIR STRINGSWORTH:A stick?!I was an instrument of righteousness! A paragon of defense!They called me Sir—SIR! Stringsworth!Do you know how many dragons I've slain?
GOD:Seventeen. Imaginary. And one sock puppet. Kudos for creativity by the way. So continuing on you've been selected for reincarnation into Realm #348-A, a high-fantasy dimension with mild chaos, moderate existential dread, and no central government!
SIR STRINGSWORTH:
wait... no central government?
GOD: Yes didn't you get the part about burning desire to "unite the world under a system of laws."
SIR STRINGSWORTH (offended, dramatic):
A lawless world?!
But—but principles and laws are all I have ever known!
A bow is nothing without order!
It cannot strike true unless it follows the lawful path laid down by its master's steady hand!
To fire without aim... to act without purpose... it's heresy!
I was forged—well, whittled—in the fires of righteousness!
I served justice, defended pillow-fort kingdoms, liberated plush nations!
And now you send me to chaos?.... To vibes?!
GOD (mock serious):
Mmm. Yes. Tragic.
The world needs a savior... and clearly, that savior is a talking stick with a superiority complex.
SIR STRINGSWORTH (ignoring entirely):
I will suffer.Horrifically!
My every day shall be a trial! A torment!My every moment plagued by the agony of unfiled paperwork, vague legislation, and—may the heavens weep!—moral relativism!
GOD (deadpan):
Don't you mean... gloriously?
SIR STRINGSWORTH (offended):
Excuse you?
GOD:
You'll suffer gloriously.Because this isn't punishment, Sir Sanded-to-Perfection.
This is promotion.
Only you—the discarded remains of a backyard LARP session—could ever hope to handle a world this broken.
You're not just a hero. You're the hero.
A radiant, overdramatic beacon of law in a land where people settle disputes by shouting and throwing goats at each other.
SIR STRINGSWORTH (utterly moved):
...Truly?Me?
GOD:
Yes, you.You're going to be a legend.A myth.
The first legal consultant to be born crying and correcting grammar.They will write songs about your zoning regulations.
SIR STRINGSWORTH (noble whisper):
Then I accept this terrible burden.And this tremendous honor.For I am Sir Stringsworth.And only one of noble grain and finely sanded edges... can bring order to this cursed realm.
GOD (already typing the reincarnation request):
Great, great. Moving on. You're being reborn in some ruins. Probably haunted. Try not to die again. Oh! Also—you'll have the ability to read and write from birth, and understand human speech.
SIR STRINGSWORTH:
Ah—yes. Literacy, the blade of intellect. Most necessary for my future decrees.
GOD:
Exactly. Can't enforce curfews in crayon.
SIR STRINGSWORTH:
And the cow?
GOD:
Still exists. Bigger now. Horns. You'll meet him again someday.
SIR STRINGSWORTH (trembling):
...Then I shall draft a vengeance clause.
GOD:
Perfect. You're being reborn in 3... 2...
SIR STRINGSWORTH (shouting):
Let all who dwell in chaos know—Sir Stringsworth returns!
GOD:
—1! And we're done. Yeet!
A flash. A cry. A legal prodigy is born.