Waldclaw
The following takes place following: Red Head Redemption
Seven months after his landslide victory, Harris Travers continues to serve as POW — President of Waldonia — and maintains a 77% approval rating. However, as is the way with Waldonians, many have once again already forgotten who he is.
Wary of the corrupting power of the citadel, Travers opted not to base his administration there this term. Instead, invoking the spirit of the previous war for freedom during the Nilbog Crisis, he established the Waldstone Mansion—renamed the Waldhouse—as his new residence in Waverly Hills, with his administration operating out of the west wing.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Our story begins on a bright, sunny morning as POW Travers and his Chief of Staff, Master Devlin, play golf at the nearby Walshire Country Club.
President Harris Travers, clad in ill-fitting golf attire that somehow makes him look even shorter, is lining up a putt on the 14th green. Master Devlin, dressed sharply as always despite the casual setting, leans on his golf club, watching the president with thinly veiled impatience. Travers squints at the ball, tongue sticking out in concentration.
Travers: “Alright, Master Devlin, watch this… This one’s going to go in first try! President
Travers: The hole-in-one master. That’s what they’re gonna call me. Mark my words.”
Master Devlin: “We’re on the green, Travers. Your chance for a hole-in-one was seventeen strokes ago.”
Travers: “Details, details. A hole in one after reaching the green, I mean…”
The goblin whacks the ball, which veers wildly off-course, missing the hole entirely, rolling off the green and into a sand trap. Travers frowns and points accusingly at the ground.
Travers: “This green is out of turn!”
Master Devlin: “Looks fine to me.”
Travers: “Nonsense, Master Devlin. Look at this blade of grass… That’s not regulation! Threw off my whole game…”
Master Devlin: “Of course, Travers. And I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact you opted for the nine-iron instead of the putter like I told you to.”
Travers: “Don’t be absurd, Master Devlin… Travers knows what he’s doing. It must be sabotage… Probably vampires tampering with the grass or something. Have Lockley investigate.”
Master Devlin: “Yes, I’m sure a band of vampire fugitives came out of hiding and risked their necks just to sabotage your golf game…”
Travers: “Exactly, just what I was thinking! Great minds, Master Devlin… Alright, watch this—”
Before Travers can take his shot, two young presidential aides, Timothy Murray and Sophia Baxter, run up to them and double over, gasping for breath. Timothy clutches a folder, waving frantically.
Timothy: “Mr President! You’re needed back at the Waldhouse immediately. We have… a crisis!”
Travers: "Whoa, whoa slow down there, Kyle! You’re gasping out of turn. Not to mention sweating all over the place. It’s very unbecoming for presidential staff... Now what’s all this about a crisis?”
Timothy: “Waldhaven, Mr President. There’s been a coup. The local government has been overthrown.”
Master Devlin: “WHAT??”
The Master snatches the folder from Timothy and flips it open. He skims the contents, his expression darkening.
Travers: “...Waldhaven? Isn’t that the place with the national cheese festival?”
Master Devlin: “Yes. And now it’s the place with armed insurgents.”
Travers: “Right, right. Cheese, now armed insurgents. Well that’s small towns for you…”
Timothy: “I’m afraid this is very serious, Mr President! They’ve seized control of the town hall and taken hostages! Apparently they’ve started broadcasting anti-Waldonian propaganda.”
The president looks mildly alarmed, but quickly recovers, brushing imaginary dirt off his trousers.
Travers: “Well, that’s just plain rude. Not to mention out of turn…”
Sophia: “We have to get back to the Waldhouse right away, Mr President. You’re needed in the war room.”
Travers: “Get Kyle to handle it… I’m busy. I’m about to get a hole-in-one…”
Timothy: “Sir? Um, sorry, do you mean you want me to…?”
Travers: “No! Don’t be absurd, Kyle. I meant the other Kyle. The Vice President. Obviously…”
Timothy: “But Vice President Konrad is in Washington DC on a state visit, sir…”
Travers: “Oh? Right, right, yeah… Well, fine, he can deal with it when he gets back…”
The Master stares at him, incredulous.
Master Devlin: “Travers, this is an armed rebellion. An entire town has been overrun with terrorists! We’re facing a national crisis, and you’re still thinking about golf?”
Travers: “Correction: It’s presidential golf, Master Devlin… I’m strategising.”
Master Devlin: “Strategising your short game while the country burns? Good Lord, Travers… Is there no limit to your selfishness?”
Travers: “Alright, alright! Just hold your horses, Master Devlin! Let me sink this last shot then we can go… Now watch this… One hole-in-one, coming up—”
Travers lines up his next shot with exaggerated care, then swings. The ball slices wildly to the left, hits a nearby tree, and bounces straight into a pond.
Travers: “For crying out loud! Who put that tree in the way?!”
He sighs dramatically and hands his golf club to Timothy.
Travers: “Alright… Let’s go see what all the fuss is about…”
****
The war room hums with tense energy. Massive screens dominate the walls, displaying maps of Waldonia and live news feeds. A group of military advisers, seated around a long conference table, rise to attention as the president and his aides enter. Travers climbs into his chair and puts his feet up on the table.
Travers: “At ease, gentlemen. What’s the situation?”
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Holt, clears his throat and clicks a remote, bringing up a satellite view of the medieval-like town of Waldhaven. Signs of battle are visible.
General Holt: “Mr President, approximately seven hours ago, armed insurgents stormed the town of Waldhaven, overpowering the authorities in less than seventeen minutes. They have dozens of hostages, but as of yet, no demands have been released.”
Travers: “Seven hours ago? Why are we just learning about this now?”
General Holt: “Waldhaven is somewhat behind the times, sir. We only know because a Widdlington tourist caught footage on his phone… It was uploaded to the social media platform WAFFL three hours ago.”
The general gestures to shaky camera footage showing a ragtag group of fighters—some human, some skunkbreed—and a stampede of cows in combat helmets charging at the local Waldhaven guards before storming Town Hall. Another video shows a flag reading “WALDCLAW” being raised while a town crier rings a bell and proclaims that Waldhaven is now free of Waldonian rule thanks to their “glorious leader.”
General Holt: “We have operatives on the ground. We can confirm it’s real… The Waldclaw terrorists have declared independence from Waldonia and are denouncing your presidency, sir.”
Travers: “Well that’s just plain rude… Not to mention severely out of turn! What do we know about them?”
The General turns to the Director of the Waldonian Intelligence Agency, Corbin Slade.
Slade: “Not much yet, Mr President. Waldclaw seem to have sprung up overnight. We don’t have a clear idea of their numbers, but many disgruntled locals appear to have joined their cause. Some are armed with military-grade weapons. It’s possible they’re ex-VAMP loyalists trying to destabilise your administration, but that’s not confirmed.”
They are interrupted as an aide approaches the table holding a parcel.
Aide: “Apologies, Mr President, but this just arrived…”
She hands the package to Travers, who squints at the crayon-scribbled address: “FOR THE PREZ MAN… URGENT. THE WALDHOUSE, WIDDLINGTON.”
Travers: “Should I open this? It’s not anthrax, is it?”
Aide: “It’s been scanned and irradiated, sir. Safe to open.”
Travers: “Alright…”
Travers uses his claws to shred the brown wrapping paper. A VHS tape slips out, labelled simply “PLAY ME…” Travers looks around at his staff, bewildered.
****
About fifteen minutes later, the war room doors swing open and an aide wheels in a CRT television/VHS combo unit on a rattling trolley.
Aide: “This was the only VHS player we could find, Mr President.”
Travers: “About time! On screen!” Technicians scramble, connecting the CRT to the giant wall display with a tangle of adapters and an ancient coax cable. The main screen flickers, crackles with static, then displays blown-up 240p video. The footage opens with bombastic, low-budget fanfare—a medieval trumpet blaring off-key—before cutting to a throne room hastily assembled inside Waldhaven Town Hall. The flag of Waldonia has been replaced with a crude banner reading “The Free State of Waldclaw,” painted with goblin claw marks and the letters “WF.” At the centre sits Widdle Frunkut, clad in a military uniform adorned with fake medals and an ill-fitting helmet perched askew on his large, pointy-eared head. His green, amphibious skin glistens under harsh lighting, his sharp teeth flashing in a smug grin. Behind him stands a skunkbreed in mismatched military garb.
Master Devlin: “I knew it… God damn it, Waldo, you son of a bitch…”
wF: “Greetings, peasants of Waldonia! And a special hello to my old mentor, Stanley Devlin—oh, and that other guy. What’s his name again? Hairy Something-Or-Other… Um… Haggis! Yeah! Haggis Traverses!”
Travers: “Haggis!?”
wF: “Yes, it is I, Warlord Waldo, eponym of the Waldoverse, and rightful ruler of this land! The town formerly known as Waldhaven has been LIBERATED—uh huh, that’s right, liberated—and rechristened WALDCLAW in our honour! Allow me to introduce our mighty forces—”
The camera pans across a ragtag militia of skunkbreed in mismatched armour, bewildered locals, and several cows wearing dented combat helmets. They brandish an eclectic arsenal: crooked Goblin Brand rifles—shoddy imitation AR-15s and questionable Kalashnikov knockoffs—many with pitchforks duct-taped to them, alongside polyfiller guns, katanas, pots and pans, and the occasional crossbow.
wF: “We has overthrown the tyrannical local government and DENOUNCED the rule of that pompous fool, Haggis Traverses! Waldclaw is now a free state—free from corruption, free from taxes, and free from stupid pizza laws! You can’t stop Widdle Frunkut, no doubt, so don’t even try!
Anyway, that’s all for now, folks, but don’t you worry that little moustache of yours, Traversman—we will be in touch soon to discuss the terms of your surrender! Oh, and Saso, you’re welcome to visit any time you like. End of transmission—”
The tape ends on the Goblin Brand logo.
The room falls silent as the screen goes black. General Holt removes his glasses, rubbing his temples. Everyone turns to the president. Travers looks back at them, confused.
Travers: “Can you believe that guy?”
They all shake their heads in horror.
Travers: “Haggis Travers?? Seriously? After all this time he doesn’t know my name? I’m not even Scotch! Wait… Am I?”
The Master facepalms, taking deep breaths to steady himself.
Sophia: “Erm… no, sir. I don’t believe so.”
Travers: “Exactly… Now, is somebody going to tell me what the hell we just watched??”
Master Devlin: “Widdle Frunkut has just declared war against all of us… He’s calling himself Warlord Waldo—that means he’s fully embraced the madness again. This will go very badly unless we act now.”
Travers: “How’d he manage to overthrow an entire town?”
Master Devlin: “He’s a master manipulator. Stirring moral panics and sowing unrest is what he does best. He probably convinced half the town that the mayor was secretly a vampire or a witch, or something…”
Travers: “Wally, you diabolical… Hehe… You gotta hand it to him. He’s quite the scamp…”
Master Devlin slams his fist on the table, startling everyone.
Master Devlin: “This is serious, Travers! Waldo must be stopped before he spreads this chaos to neighbouring towns. That maniac is probably building bigger skunk armies as we speak!”
Travers: “You don’t have to tell me how serious this is, Master Devlin. I saw the cows. I get it! Now… Suggestions? General?”
General Holt straightens and slides a dossier across the table.
General Holt: “Mr President, our recommendation is immediate containment. Seal off Waldhaven, deploy a rapid-response unit, retake the town hall, and detain the Waldclaw leadership before this mutates into a wider insurgency.”
Master Devlin: “I concur. Hit them fast and hard. Don’t give Waldo time to dig in.”
Travers nods thoughtfully, tapping the table as though conducting an invisible orchestra.
Travers: “Mhm… yes, very bold, lots of action, very energetic. Love the enthusiasm… but maybe we don’t jump straight to storming the place, just yet...”
Holt blinks.
General Holt: “Sir, with respect, delay will only strengthen Waldo’s position.”
Travers: “But you said we don’t know how many men he’s got. Surely we need to gather more intel before we dive headfirst into anything… Mr Slade, you’re an intelligent man. What do you think?”
Slade: “It’s true we don’t yet know Waldclaw’s numbers, weapon stockpiles, or external funding. A premature strike risks casualties. I recommend infiltration and reconnaissance first. Let us get more operatives on the ground so we can determine the scope of the threat. I also recommend initiating a counter-propaganda programme.”
Travers furrows his brow, nodding slowly in an effort to appear presidential. Then he climbs onto the table, claps his hands, and plants his fists on his hips in an exaggerated pose of leadership.
Travers: “Alright, fine. General, you may prepare for mobilisation, but first we’re gathering more intel. Then I’ll make my decision. But don’t worry—this acting out of turn from Wally will not go unanswered. I want a speech on my desk in half an hour… Something firm, yet reassuringly folksy and comforting…”
The Waldoverse continues in The Ogle Office