Northwest Schrote!

As any self-respecting inhabitant can tell you, the northwest is the worst area by far of the bishopric of Schrote. Things to hold against this portion of the tiny state are (a) it is part of Schrote; (b) it contains the largest urban area - the town of Schrote itself, with a population of some 600; (c) it is part of Schrote; and (d) it contains all of the bishopric's bridges. The answer to the question of why the last of these reasons should be so significant can easily be had by visiting said structures and looking for oneself at what passes in Schrote for 'a sturdy stone structure, only recently refurbished'. It is doubtful if the repair work on these structures could be less effective if one had packed them with fruit scones and then used clotted cream for mortar. The bridges at least then would taste better.

The southern boundry of this region of Schrote is marked by the road that runs from Schrote town to the Saukopf border. This terminates in the village of Bautzen Um Trumpelhein. Three hundred people live in this village. Much of the road runs parallel to the Kleine Tinkel, a stream some eight feet wide and often quite deep, with steep banks. For those that like heavy exertion and the strong certainty of mud, there are fords leading north in Bautzen and also at Wiffel's farm. 

Schrote itself stands in the lee of a line of unremarkable hills, the Mittelmassige Hugel. This gives the town some protection from the northeasterly winds that would otherwise remove some of the dank smells and clinging mists that permeate the capital. Main roads run northwestwards to Bautzen and also to the north. The northern road crosses the Tinkel at Schrote bridge and Tinkel mill, before heading to the other border crossing into Saukopf. This runs via a farm, Hanamel Farm, before reaching the border hamlet of Zandruf (population 100, except when tithes are due; whereupon the population is four). The two main roads are generally passable for wagons and artillery in most weathers, though the ill-made repairs tend to give coach passengers the same quality of comfort as if someone, a Prussian no doubt, had decided to fit the carriage with wheels that were square. From Tinkel Mill, a spur on the main road can take travellers to the bishopric's two universities, Oxfurt and Kambritz. These educational establishments are notoriously difficult for students to get into, because the doorways are so small.

Between these two main roads is a wide area, much of which is composed of rolling meadows, with the odd copse of two. There are, however, two areas of marshy ground. The worst of these is referred to by locals as the Northish Marsh, because it is probably to the north, but no one there really owns a compass; and the other tract is known by the imaginative locals as the More Marsh, because they already had one. Three small farms lie in this area - Immerdal Farm, Nurgle's Farm, and Hanamel Farm. Tracks link these small clusters of buildings, and they are generally, with one exception, of reasonable quality. The exception is the track from Immerdal to Nurgle's Farm - since it actually passes through the Northish Marsh, it should be undertaken only by those who have been able to find, and then domesticate, toads the size of horses. Locals, they say, know of a number of unmarked routes, but one cannot trust the locals any further than one could throw a giant domesticated amphibian.

Northeast Schrote!

Contrary to the views of some, it is the northeast of Schrote that is by far the worst portion of the bishopric - unless, that is, one has already visited one of the other parts of it. The south of this area comprises of the northern reaches of the Schrotewald. Wisely, the inhabitants have tended to give the forest itself a wide berth, since the forest, like most Englishmen, is thick and riddled with combative squirrels. The inhabitants live in three villages, each of around 200 souls - Langenzofft, on the border with the Landgravate of Hesse-Rotenberg-Schillingsfurst; Schmallenhardt; and then Widenlau. Each of these stands on the main road from the border to the town of Schrote, or, if one views this from the most desirable direction of travel, from Schrote town to the border. The country to the north of the forest still remains quite wooded, with many green glades, dingley dells, and hidden hollows, so beloved of poets, romantics, and serial murderers.

There are a number of tracks that spring from the main road. Several of these lead to the old manorial dwelling known as Hindergran Manor. This estate belongs to the family of one Ritter von Feltch. The ritter himself was burnt at the steak; a result of an ill-fated attempt to flambe' a filet-mignon in a barrel of lamp oil. However, his wife, Ingretta, inherited the manor and continues to live there. She is well known as someone who has her finger on the pulse of Schrotal affairs; though more than one finger is usually required, given the weakness of that pulse; and a thumb or two can also come in handy. The main Schrote-border road is actually fairly good, and can be relied upon to carry wagons and artillery in most weathers. The tracks, on the other hand, are poor - less tracks, actually, and more drag marks (see earlier comments regarding serial murderers).

Southeast Schrote!

The southeast of Schrote is by far the worst portion of the bishopric; except in comparison perhaps to all the others. It is divided more or less into two parts. To the north are the lower regions of the Schrotewald. The forest, like the few poor woodfolk that live there, is often rather dense, with dank knooks and openings that are better left unexplored; but it is cut through by a number of tracks, the navigability of which varies depending upon the weather. The main tracks come together in an open clearing marked by the remains of a petrified tree - 'Flumpe's Stumpe', as it is known. There, in summer, a fair is held, though this 'fair' actually has much in common, in terms of its safety, hospitality, and profitability, with a honey fight at a bears-only bare-knuckle contest.

To the south, the country consists of more open ground: meadows, thickets, and rolling hills. There are, in testament to the triumph of hope over experience, a number of farms - Piggel's Farm, Schaffrem Farm, and Alte Zackdonaus Farm. However, the main settlements in this area are three villages, Hanau-Brancau, Schuttorf, and Bad Singen, each with a population of around two hundred, the number depending upon whether it is time to pay their taxes. The hamlet of Ehrwig contains about a hundred souls. For those trapped in this part of Schrote and looking for entertainment, then punching oneself repeatedly in the face and then retiring to bed is likely to be the best option. However, for those determined to live on the mild side, there is one older landmark - an ancient cairn to the east - which might be of some interest to the educated traveller, and which local intellectuals have named 'The Thingie'. It is, as the cathedral records, ah, record, really, really old and is almost certainly probably part of an ancient pagan sun clock, astronomical device, or hat stand. 

The main road through through the three villages connects the town of Schrote to the border. This road is fine for wagons and artillery, unless it rains heavily; in which case it tends to take on the same viscosity as a Mittelheim soup, and has much the same taste, no doubt.

Shear Nonsense!

At the Cathedral of Schrote, Bishop Baldwin's day takes a turn for the worse; or the even worse. And, frankly, it's less of a turn and more of a vigorous twirl. As he returns from a restorative walk, keen to try and forget the troubles that swirl around him, who should be waiting for Baldwin but Brother Michael, the source of most of his current woes.

'Ah, Brother Michael', says the bishop wearily, 'I'd like to say what a pleasure it is to see you!'

'That's most kind', says Michael.
'Not really - I'd like to say what a pleasure it is to see you; but I can't - because it isn't'.
'Why ever not?' replies the inquisitor jauntily. 'I thought that we were getting on famously! We have so much in common, I think!'

'Well, we both like the colour red, I suppose. But, to be fair, I think the chances of a warm and harmonious relationship between us are probably reduced a tad by the fact that you are blackmailing me into performing a dangerous act of treason which if I'm caught means that I might, if I'm unlucky, get hung, drawn and quartered; and which, if I'm lucky, will just change the order in which those activities take place'.
'Tush and fie, my fine fellow. What reason is there to be so gloomy? You are being very well rewarded, and the chances of you being caught are very small. Or at least not large'. He pauses. 'Not appreciably large'.

Bishop Baldwin scowls. 'Well, you can be sure, inquisitor, that if I go down for this, then I shall be taking you with me!'
'No', replies Brother Michael cheerily, 'I don't think so'.
'But I'll tell them everything!'
The inquisitor waggles a finger. He then rummages alarmingly in his cassock before bringing out an instrument that seems to be a small pair of shears. 'Ah, now that would require that you could speak - which, of course, would require that you still had a tongue'. Michael snips the shears vigorously.

'I could write it all down!'
Michael  gestures to the bishop's fingers and then redoubles his snipping. 'An activity, bishop, that would require fingers. These instruments are really quite versatile!'
'In any case', continues Michael, 'I'm here just to give you the final details, so that you can do your bit. Now, the emperor will arrive three days before the coronation with a company of his guard'.
'Three days?' gulps Baldwin incredulously. 'What will he do for three days?'
'Well, you could show him the sights, perhaps?'
'And the other two days and 23 hours?'
'Well, he likes hunting: perhaps that would occupy him? Have you any prey that is easy to catch and that you wouldn't miss?'
'There's some of the old townsfolk ...'
'No, I mean wild animals that perhaps are a nuisance to farm stock?'
'That's still the old folk ...'
'You can't hunt old people; this is Mittelheim, not the middle ages'.
'Some would see the two more or less as synonymous ... Anyway, you are an inquistor - you burn people!'
'For their own good - it's completely different. Look, he'll be coming, and then you'll implement your plan!'

Baldwin sighs in defeat. 'Yes, yes - it's all in hand. Trust me, no one will know what has happened to him'.
'Excellent', says Michael. 'So, you will secretly drug the emperor and spirit him away to a secret location where he will be picked up by the forces of Bachscuttel and Nabstria, which even now are assembling in secret, poised to invade!'
'Poised?' enquires Baldwin dismissively. 'Are any of the military forces of Mittelheim every likely to be "poised"?'
'Well, "slouched" then - but the point is, all they'll need is your information on where it is that you will have stashed the emperor!'
'Yes, yes. I'll let you know the destination when the deed is done. Here is a map of Schrote'.
'What! It's tiny! Who chose this font? How am I supposed to read this - paste it to the back of my eyelids!'
'It's a map of Schrote', says the bishop wearily. 'Does it really matter what's on it?'

Map of the Bishopric of Schrote!

It is a fact well-known, dear reader, that no greater evening of roistering can begin than that which starts with a purse full of money, a Rotenburg jellied seagull, and a map of Schrote. The map can then be used to wrap the seagull in, which can then be responsibly disposed of, freeing both hands for the purposes of getting wildly hammered at any hostelry of one's choice. Certainly, the very last use to which a map of Schrote would generally be put would be to find one's way either to or around Schrote itself. No gentlemen in reasonable possession of his faculties would have so strong an intent to go to Schrote that he would need a map; and anyone already there probably couldn't read the map; or read at all, for that matter. Still, it's Friday night, so here's your map of Schrote - you'll have to provide your own cash and seagull. 

This map, of course, is almost impossible to read, though this probably is a benefit - there is little to be gained by knowing more about Schrote; and it has no impact on its absorbancy, should your seagull be especially damp. The first map of the bishopric was created in 1574 by a local dignitary, though this was an accident occasioned by him sneezing heavily onto a map of Montenegro. A later and less detailed map was created by Bishop Baldwin LIII as a way of identifying the fastest way out. His efforts demonstrated disappointingly that Schrote was slightly bigger than he had imagined, and that it contained even less of any interest.

For some sad fellows, however, this map may become more important, especally as nefarious plans concerning Emperor George's coronation reach fruition. Soon, military officers may be perusing it, spectacles (or telescopes) in hand, cursing the poor choice of fonts.