He’s a metaphor of course.

The dungeon loves its metaphors. Sometimes, I’m not sure if it was the dungeon-master who conceived these things, or if the dungeon itself came up with them and the dungeon-master simply assumed control.

But that doesn’t make him any less real.

That doesn’t make the burning smell on his breath any less acrid, the groaning of the leather any less audible to my ears that surge with rushing wind as I rise up into the air. It doesn’t make the furious look in his eyes any less piercing.

  The king with no name roars, his strange, mangled form crying loud as he sees me with those disgusting yellow eyes of his. His long, dragging arms hanging at his side. The back of his hands dragging along the stones with his palms facing upwards, the leather belt clenched tightly in the grasp of his long, ape-like fingers.

A hand swipes out at me in range.

“What are you doing in my garden?!” barks the disgusting man, his long claws reaching out to swipe for me, as I kick off, as I leap and fly across the room, escaping his clutches.

I land, sliding across the floor in a spin, as I look up to face his gangrene eyes that are staring my way, a thick yellow liquid leaking from the corners, streaking down his hairy, furry face. He cracks the belt, slapping it against a table that splits in half. The plants crash to the ground.

  “Why are you making a mess in my house?!” He lumbers forward, lurching towards me in that out of sync movement of his. Step. Pause. Step-step. Step. Pause. Step-step. His body janking and lurching, the knuckles of his free hand dragging behind him. The other long arm lifts the belt up high. “You disrespectful little shit!” The belt cracks as he slaps it against the stones, his other hand reaching up, reaching for my eyes.

“You won’t behave?! You won’t do what you’re told?!”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The leather cracks.

“Then I’ll make you!” his eyes grow wide, puss leaking out of the corners from the pressure of his glare. “I’ll fucking make you!” He howls in a fury, approaching towards me. Shifting and lurching, the king with no name comes to punish me for my transgressions.

I narrow my eyes, my hands gripping the lance tighter as he approaches.

“I put a fucking roof over your head, you ungrateful little shit!” The leather cracks. “And this is how you thank me?!” The leather slaps, as it strikes the stones just in front of me. “I’ll make you learn! I’ll make you learn some respect! I’ll wipe that look off your fucking face!”

  He lifts his arm and swings out, the crack of the leather belt striking out as it wraps around my body. The slap of the material against my form stinging into my very core as the belt strikes my chest. Strikes my face. But I don’t lower my eyes that glare into his. My free hand shoots up, grabbing the leather that coils around myself from the force of his strike as my gaze narrows, locking on to his. As I lift the lance.

“You little cunt! I’ll beat the shit out of you!” howls the king with no name, yanking his belt back and his other arm reaching out to grab my neck. I don’t let go of the belt and my other arm jolts forward.

The lance flies onward, the tip of the shining blade digging through the outstretched palm of his other arm. The weapon pushing through his palm, pushing through his forearm, pushing through his bicep as he howls in agony.

  With a twitch, I rip the lance back out, tearing it free from the king with no name who screams in anguish, as his arm falls down limply to his side, entirely shattered and broken. “You ungrateful shit!” He screams, thrashing as I lift the lance again, looking into his sickly yellow eyes. The white, long since tinged out of them, the alcohol long since having washed away any sense of a soul that was perhaps once in there. There’s nothing left. I don’t even want his eyes. They’re disgusting.

  His good arm lashes out, striking against my face and I duck down low, the lance in my free arm rushing forward a second time, surging forward a second time like the crash of a raging wave, smashing into his shores. The king with no name lurches, spluttering as the lance digs into his chest. I plant my boot forward, holding my other behind myself and I pull.

  I leverage the lance against the stone floors, setting the base of the shaft against the rock as I pull it back. As I stand it upright, the giant king with no name skewered onto the tip of the blade, lifting high up into the air as his feet leave the ground, as he screams and splutters in an agony I have long since wished on him.

He screams and my eyes go wide in delight.

He screams, the yellow tinge dripping from his eyes as he looks at me in rage. Even now, all he feels is rage. He doesn’t feel horror, he doesn’t feel the terror that he inflicted onto me, onto us. All he feels is a violent, drunken rage and I won’t forgive him for it. I want him to die afraid.

His body slides down, stuck as he presses down into the front blade-guard of the lance.

Then, a second later, I grab the lever and slam it back down, smashing him down against a table. He crashes into it, his body breaking much like it, as he comes crashing down.

With disgust, I pull the lance free.

Something bubbles in my armor as I turn away, not wanting to look at him anymore. I’ve seen enough.

“You’re not my real dad!” bubbles the slime, sticking out her tongue as I turn to walk away, sparing only a glance at the confused, terrified figure looking out of the pot towards me. The only sound left for me to hear is the clanking of my boots and the steady dripping of the yellow bile, dropping down from the tip of my lance to stain the pristine white marble floors.