Mare de Obsidianus is a world built to be an exploration of Rousseau's State of Nature and ideas about the state and popular consent. The world and its history is contained in a writing piece from the perspective of a man visiting the island from another nation.

The stiff wooden floorboards were replaced by ripples of waves as my feet first greeted the shores of Mare de Obsidianus. Upon my arrival I was greeted by a man with a peculiar instrument upon his head that looked to be a hat with bird-like feathers. It was told to me then that it was a symbol of freedom and an alliance to what he noted to be a “good”. What this good was I soon determined to figure out. Wind danced upon leaves as it swam through trees and the salt settled upon my tongue scourging for refuge. The sun beamed down into my eyes blinding them with immense strength. With the sun soon hiding behind a large cloud of soot, my eyes scanned the horizon. Sat high in front of us were mountains and cliffs adorned under a blanket of snow rising in the distance as I ventured a few steps deeper inland. It was remarkable. I asked the man if he thought so. He nodded and pointed to a mysterious archway connecting two cliffs. He chuckled pointing to the arch and then to his chest. “My ancestors.” I tilted my head, chuckling to myself wondering how it could possibly be made by man. He pointed above smiling. Motioning me forward, we walked beside one another until we eventually reached our destination. In front of us sat three elderly women sewing under a canopy of bookshelves. They stared sternly as did I, as we remained both wary of each other. The man bowed beckoning me to follow. Speaking in his native tongue as we all bathed within a sea of books their expressions softened. The first woman chuckled, swimming over to one. She then began to speak, her voice both soft and wild just like the land we all stood upon. “Let us start from the beginning,” She told me of a garden of Eve. A utopian world. Wild crops scattered wide and far for the picking, lush greenery anywhere one could look, and bliss amongst the people. Chickens played in the fields and were treated better than any man. Fed, washed, fanned, they were friends. A land of peace and serenity that was of Godly perfection. As she spoke the tales ran from her tongue as though attempting to escape the past. Waiting in time for their day to be reborn again. The second woman stood forward with a hiss “Foolish” she scowled slithering over to another text on my left. I stepped back hastily, startled by her sudden movement beside me. “Have you forgotten the monsoons girl” Just then soft tattering hovered above us. “It is early,” mumbled the woman as they all exchanged a knowing glance. “What is it” I asked. The air hung in the room as I heaved heavily awaiting her next words. They sat in silence until she sighed softly, shaking her head. Every year the people’s crops had been trampled by storms. Great storms that had once wiped out entire villages, entire crops, and entire forests. Monsoons that stretched from June to September. The public, fearful, turned to a man whose name would forever be instilled into their minds for centuries. Quirino. A man who once had been kind, respected, and adored. He promised them he would save them; that he would save all of them. In the coming weeks, deep trenches spread across the island surrounding crops and walls higher than hills were placed in front of ports. It kept the water out, however, it also kept out the people. In a decree from Quirino he outlined several policies for the betterment of society. The people were unable to sail and those who tried were severely punished. In addition to this, not even a drop of ink was permitted to pass through his boundaries. It was an impossible feat and forbidden to speak or write to others. Even so, he promised to distribute wheat, however, the people continued on without even seeing a grain. Their promises never arrived. Quirino had lied. “Quirino!” they cried, chanting, singing, begging. “Save us!” He became riddled with greed. A man who was once a warrier. A man who was once a friend. A man who was once a brother. A man who was once a man. The second woman had grown to be solemn “My family… gone. Our families gone. My people, gone!” she shouted recoiling. “Oh, but not for long Mehendy.” The third woman stepped forward with a soft smirk, awakening a third and final book that had been sleeping in her palms. “Let us end at the beginning." I bowed to her, wiping the corner of my eye. As Quirino’s reign lingered on, the people’s conditions worsened. Starvation became habitual. Loneliness: an expectation. However, even so, the most powerful undertow was the spirits of the men. It began within whispered voices, plots disguised as dinners, and gatherings as cloaks for rebellion. Over the seas, they sent messages in bottles with coded directions that voyaged over the boiling ocean heated by their wrath. Wearing hats emulating the crowns of birds, under the cover of night, they would dig tunnels under walls and bridges over trenches to reach the sea. Many would swim their way to the other side stopping briefly at a small island long forgotten. Here the revolution sparked with weapons of obsidian and boats crafted in secret. However, they were still missing the gasoline. It arrived the day the king instilled one last and final new proclamation. With the need for food increasing ever quickly alongside Quirino’s greed, he stated that by the tenth of April that the meat of chickens were to be laid upon the tables of Mare de Obsidenaus. The sea boiled. That is when they striked. Thousands of boats flooded through walls. “War,” she said smiling. Quirino’s reign ended with the final overtaking of the capital building seven years later on the tenth of April. Seven years of violence, seven years of fighting, seven years of desperation for a lifetime of freedom sparked within a moment of hope. Golden light streamed into the hall. “Go now child. We shall speak again in the morning.” I nodded and with one final bow the man exited in front of me. I stumbled, following suit. The world around me now looked different. It stared into my skin, burning into it, just as those women once did moments prior. Buildings of torment were now gardens for seedlings, returning the land back to its natural form. Deep trenches and broken walls rested scattered still alive, but lost in time. Now, as I rest after this long day in my hut I wonder am I too lost within time? Who are we but another fable like Mare De Obsidianus? I will find out. 

It has been a few moments since I wrote the previous. I just received a knock on the door from the man who has been accompanying me on this journey through this strange land. He kneeled and placed his hat on the side. “This” he pointed, “is the only chicken on our table. Our Crown.” 

Goodnight, 

De Gierard II