Trekking over a sea of One Direction Fan Fictions, the intrepid group marched on, calling out: "King Jordan?" over and over, flinching at any sign of movement among the monochromatic, gloomy landscape.
They new all hope of any original stories was almost lost, yet they still clutched their quills, desperate for inspiration, and maybe some ink that wasn't diseased with the One Direction infection. What had once been a prosperous kingdom, full of happy writers with new ideas, entering contests and supporting each other's writing, was now a barren wasteland; full of torn up original plots and decaying prologues. The Directioners had invaded years ago, placing five horrible, girly men (if you can call them men, that is) in the place of Jordan Philips, the previous monarch.
In fact, all the royals had disappeared a while ago, leaving their subjects to either go into hiding, or stay and fight alone. These people I speak of here, dear reader, chose the latter. There had been no success yet, however, and it had come to desperate shouting throughout the land, all of which was plastered with posters of Harry, Niall, Zayn, Louis, and Liam.
Repeating their mighty ruler's name many times over, then those of the other Movellas Royals, the group were deflated when no reply came. Until, a faint whisper, so soft it was barely audible, was heard amist the cries of undying love from stupid fans of One Direction. Just about aloud, in between cries of:
"Oh, Louis, you bad boy," and
"Niall, I want to take this relationship further, be more than just friends." a voice was faintly heard, muttering: