“Men! Women! We stand here atop these walls to defend our homes, our land, our families (relations, ancestors, dynasties)! The enemy march this way, and they hate every aspect of our way of life, our nature, our society (civilisation, people, association)! But will they succeed (prosper, thrive, flourish)? No! For we will endure, and Synonymia will stand eternal (everlasting, undying, unending)!”
A cheer rose from the ranks of archers, soldiers and knights reinforcing the battlements and filling the castle courtyard as their King addressed them. A few of them wore looks of worry amidst the patriotic fervour, but they did not speak of their concern.
Dawn came, beautiful as ever, and the birds sang just as sweetly as ever. Yet there was a tension in the air, and not long after first light, the first plaintive battle horns and marching drums could be heard alongside the chorus.
Huge, burly ogres marched over the hill, bearing the colours of Monosyllabia. A creaking war engine rumbled alongside them, drawn by a monstrous thesaurus with muddy brown scales on its four tree-trunk legs. The Monosyllabians pitched their camp on the field just out of the range of the Synonymian archers.
The battle raged for hours, the screams of dying men, women and ogres overwhelmed by the roars of wounded thesauruses (thesauri?) and the shattering sound of artillery striking the walls of the castle.
“Breach!” went the cry (well, it was a mix of that and “Opening!”, “Break!”, “Crack!”, “Fissure!”, and so forth) and stone exploded into the courtyard as the walls fell in. The fighting was furious, fearsome and frightening, or so the bards of Alliteratia would later report, but the Synonymians were starting to lose heart.
High in the keep, King Roget of Synonymia was looking distraught. “We are all but lost (defeated, failed, down)!” he wailed.
“There is one option remaining (outstanding, lingering, residual),” said an advisor. “We have the pitch.”
Great cauldrons were pushed to the battlements, steaming and churning. “Will it be enough (sufficient, adequate, satisfactory)?” asked the King.
Yet the time for questions had passed. With a roar of exertion from their minders, the cauldrons were up-ended en masse, issuing their contents past the walls as the Monosyllabians battling in the courtyard looked up in horror.
A great wave of Synonymian advertising executives was bearing down on them, each one expounding the virtues of a product, service or solution in loquacious fashion. The Monosyllabians didn’t have a chance, washed away in a tumult of relentless marketing.
King Roget was jubilant, “Now, we take the fight to them!”
His advisors looked at him expectantly. He stumbled for a moment, then rallied.
“Um… the enemy, opponent, adversary, foe…”