The doors of the mansion flew open. The moment the throne’s bony feet clattered on ivory marble and felt a long-awaited warmth from the oak-leaf patterned long carpet, they were met with the marble statue of a paladin. The armour-clad figure stood proudly, in one hand, holding the shield of the Gods of Light, the Tutha’Duin. In his other hand, he held aloft a sword flaked with gold leaf - ‘How shoddy!’ Mithlas thought, and he was right to think so, for if this was of Beohil make, it would have been made of actual solid gold. Most striking of all was his helm which was shaped like a snarling hound with bared teeth and cropped ears. This was none other than the paladin famed for killing the Lich King many, many years ago, Ser Cu of Gol’Stanta

“So this little holiday cabin belongs to the Dog Knight? Or rather, his descendants. Not what I expected from that rugged dog of a man.”

He felt that pang of hunger again, followed by the ravenous growl as if possessed by the spirit of the wolf he… nevermind. He wanted to forget what happened that night as much as possible.

“Come, worms. Your king is starving. Find me some food. Fresh food.”

After navigating many halls and rooms, they soon found the kitchen. It had been left in a state. The guards must have been drinking here, but there were a few more than two cups stained with wine sitting on a large wooden table. There were windows on one end of the wall, but the one just opposite the kitchen counter had been left open, showing the battle-damaged front yard. Dame Gnatta trembled, but her new loyalty to the Slyth’Taynt prevented her from moving of her own accord. She heard a loud growling coming from the throne.

“Looks like you and your friends were having a party here, Gnat. Be a dear and show me where you keep the food and fine wine.”

The order was made and it moved her against her own will; even her iron stubbornness wasn't enough to fight against this low grade necromancer. His words had been laced with a strong magic, not unlike the Lich King that she and her old companions had fought against. She silently cursed at herself as she moved closer to the small stairs leading into the pantry. She had hoped they had hid someplace else. Anywhere but the pantry. Her hands shakily gripped the circular handle of the door. She could scarcely hear frightened breathing from the otherside. Gods… no.

The pantry door swung open with a loud creak; a sound that most definitely made Mithlas cringe - they couldn't even be bothered to keep all the door hinges oiled to prevent such an assault on his poor ears?! These servants sure did get lazy without their masters and mistresses in the house.

From the other undead’s perspectives, nothing out of the ordinary could be seen inside. Mithlas was far too hungry to notice anything either, except for the great selection of fine foods and drinks on display. Immediately he ordered his undead to prepare him a feast; nothing that needed to be cooked - mind you, he was far too hungry to wait. Mithlas’ throne had plonked itself down beside the table, which was quickly cleaned and dressed with tablecloth and the finest of plates and cutlery. As each of the undead cut and prepared the dried meats, hard cheeses, fresh fruits and sweet breads, Gnatta kept a sideways glance towards the pantry. Somewhere amongst the barrels and sacks, there was something there, biding, listening.

“Gods, just bring the food here already. I'm wasting away!”

The undead were interrupted from their preparations. Usually, Mithlas wouldn't have taken a bite if the food had not been to his standards, however he did previously eat dead wolf and he was starving so standards had flown straight out of the window for him. The moment he took a bite of a fresh golden pear, a look of utter disgust crossed his face. There hadn't been anything wrong with the fruit; the texture was right and the taste was sweetly tart. It should have been the best pear he had ever tasted but he felt so sick to the point that he spat it right out.

“A-Are you trying to poison me?!”

The dried up monk holding the bowl of fruits shook his head creakily. He staggered back as the slug snatched the bowl and tossed it away.

“Stupid bag of bones… Bring me something else!”

One by one, the undead presented Mithlas with all the finest things from that pantry. Every sweet, savoury, perfectly seasoned thing was spat out and thrown aside by the slug. He came close to gagging several times but by some strange process of his body, nothing ever did come back up. He was sweating profusely again. His emotions were a mix of disgust and a gnawing fear. In desperation he tried to force himself to swallow these things, but he could hardly keep these foods in his mouth for even a second. The pantry was growing emptier and with it, Dame Gnatta’s worry was growing.

After a failed attempt at trying to eat one more piece of a sweet pastry, Mithlas gasped and grasped at the edges of the table.

“This isn't fair,” he heaved, “The food must be poisoned… Those damned servants must have done it.”

In truth, there had been nothing wrong with the food at all. It was a strong suspicion in the back of his mind but one that he couldn't bear to accept. It was easier to blame his folly on the ill-prepared servants of the mansion. The undead had froze in their commands, forced to hear the Mithlas’ whining and complaining.

Whatever was hiding in that pantry had noticed that the undead had stopped coming into the pantry. Still retaining her hawkish perception into undeath, Gnatta could see two faces peering out from the heavily shadowed part of the dark pantry. If her heart could still beat, it would have burst from her chest. She willed those two to leave. Each moment, they hesitated, rocking in and out of view. It took one to finally rush out quietly, followed by the second, frightful one. Before they could make it to the door, Mithlas had recovered from his outburst - their hesitation had cost them dearly and Gnatta had let out a groan of disappointment.

“It seems we have two rats sneaking around,” Mithlas chuckled.

The two servant girls made a break for the door but with Mithlas’ command, they were caught by his undead servants. They kicked and screamed before being promptly sat down on the opposite side of the table from Mithlas, just in front of Gnatta. The young women continued to struggle, as rodents caught in a trap would do.

“Ah ah ah,” Mithlas said, wagging his finger at them, “I’ll have none of that attitude from either of you. Doorwedge, Gnat, shut them up.”

The two moved of their own accord and placed their hands over their mouths. When the girls saw Gnatta, their hearts sank and fear nestled in their hearts.

“Now-” Mithlas was interrupted by his stomach’s protests. With reluctance in his voice, he finally relented, “Ugh… Cachiad, bring me the overripe items…”

The undead priest quickly brought him a bunch of almost-past-gone food from the pantry; it was all that was left in there now. Mithlas took the food and ate it all up feeling immense regret for savouring the lightly rot-touched flavours.

“Now, what shall I do with you two?” he said, munching into a slightly brown-sagged apple.

The servants looked at Mithlas in disgust, clearly unable to take his appearance or scent even though their mouths and noses were shielded by a freshly undead and a long desiccated undead.

“What’s with that look? If you keep looking at me like that I’ll add you to my army. I have every right to after you stampcrabs tried to poison me!”

With that the girls together changed their look and forced smiles.

“You can do better than that. Smile, you're in the presence of a king!”

The maids put a bit more effort into looking like they were genuinely happy to behold such a sight. They pictured their ideal lovers: one pretended to see a fellow with flowing hair, strong jawline and chisell’d torso like any man sung of by the Bards of Erotica. The other saw the squire that -unfortunately- abandoned them to the whims of the slug. Still, she remained infatuated.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“That's better. Now what to do with you…? Aha! I have just the thing. I am a merciful and forgiving king. If you want me to spare the likes of you wretches, you’d best do what I say.”

The girls braced themselves for whatever horrid acts the Slyth’taynt had intended for them. Their heads swam with whatever cruel and disturbing things such a creature of filth would intend with two helpless servants.

“I want you to make me beautiful.’

The girls looked at each other, one muddle-faced and the other trying to stifle a laugh. How they would make this sagging pile of slug flesh look in the slightest bit appealing. Regardless, under the threat of being turned into rotten-smelling zombies, they were willing to do anything.

Without a moment's hesitation, they led him up to the master bedroom. Of course, he was carried along in his bone throne so he didn’t have to tire himself out with the stairs - thank the gods. Still, the slow movements of his straining servants and the gentle rocking movements the throne made as they ascended was beginning to make him very sleepy.

By the time he had awoken from his nap he was in the master bedroom and he had been spared the wait for all of the preparations. After a big yawn, he gestured for the two girls to begin. The servant girls didn’t really know what to start. They had never beautified a canvas so putrid before. So they went with what they knew.

They applied a generous amount of lotions and powders to his face. The pats of cotton-sponge and the steady strokes of each brush elicited a satisfied sigh from the Slyth’taynt. It was wondrous how a face could be transformed, even with lesser quality Dwine cosmetics.

Mithlas loathed waiting, but he made an exception for this occasion. The feeling of having one’s body painted and features enhanced by the magic of makeup was a joy that nearly every elf indulged in. And for a former elf that hadn't had his makeup done in quite some time, this was bliss. Besides that, even he knew that real art couldn't be rushed so he let them take their time - with the occasional snack break.

The skies had become a darker, colder blue by the time the girls were done. If the dead had the freedom to express themselves, some of them would have laughed at the result. Others not so much. Dame Gnatta fluctuated between the two out of disdain for her murderer and fear for the girls. The girls themselves were beginning to sweat. They exchanged small glances, one urging the other to speak first. After a long back and forth, one gulped down their fear and pursed their lips open.

“We're finished, er…” the one paused, considering her next word carefully, “Milord.”

“We'll see about that. Show me.”

The girls pulled over the large standing mirror. His makeup was done in the fashion of that decade: his whole head was painted a pale tone, warmed at the cheeks and caked on so much that each bump and pore had been smoothed put. Contours were painted over his bloated cheeks

“No no no! This won't do!”

They felt their breaths get stuck in their lungs.

“Where's my hair? Fetch me a wig at once.”

The girls’ eyes widened. They had no wigs in the mansion - their masters had been blessed (or cursed) with hair that seemed to continuously grow out instead of falling out. But one of them seemed to have a pretty quick idea.

“Right away, Milord.”

She rushed out of the room, which would have raised an eyebrow had Mithlas not been so preoccupied with his visage. The other servant girl bit her lip as she waited for her companion to return. He didn't seem too upset about their work on his face so there was that.

That's when her companion returned. She could have fainted there and then for she recognised the things in her hand. It was all of the hairs gathered up from when the family had last stayed at the mansion - all of the hairs had been hastily bound together by twine and glue to form a copper brown ‘wig’. Their hair tended to grow out and quite fast in nearly every place of their body. Particularly in the rear end - most believed that Ser Cu had a tail for he was too proud to trim himself down. His descendants did not share that same sentiment, however.

Mithlas looked up to see the wig in question. His face twisted into annoyance.

“That colour? Is that all you have?”

“Yes, Milord. Our lord and lady prefer to wear the colour that they were born with.”

He raised a lumpy brow, “They both have the same coloured hair?”

“Yes, Milord.”

Putting that peculiar detail aside, he continued his rant, “Well… Couldn't they have at least been adventurous enough to try something less drole? Why not platinum or honey wine? Hells, I’d even settle for corn stalk.”

She sucked her lips in, making a very unsure horizontal line with her mouth as she pondered whether the question was one she should answer.

“Ugh, ginger… Very well, put it on.”

She applied a powder that felt pleasantly cool to his slimy scalp and placed the wig on. Doing her best to style it around his head, she carefully brushed it with various combs. It didn't really suit him, but honestly it could have been a whole lot worse.

Mithlas had them hold their breaths again as he inspected his visage. He didn't look too pleased. The girls gulped at the same time when they saw his expression shift into a scowl. They prayed quietly for the gods to spare them from becoming stinking corpses, but that fate was becoming increasingly more likely.

“Hmm… I never thought I’d say this, but this colour does suit my current complexion. It will do.”

Oh.

The girls and Gnatta felt the held air escape from their lungs.

“Now, I am a merciful king,” Mithlas said, running a painted hand through his hair, “I’ll spare you for not making an absolute meal of my face.”

“But,” the girls straightened right up at the word, “You must do one thing for me.”

“Spread word of me, your new glorious Worm King, Mithlas! And, er…”

He thought of Pithelel’s warning. The very thought of returning to that horrible plane made him shiver.

“…and the all-powerful god Pithelel, who made this all happen,” he said, words laced with cautious sarcasm.

“We will, Sire,” the quieter girl said. The other tugged at her skirt, prompting her to curtsey with her companion.

A wise choice. Mithlas was well puffed up with the show of respect. Finally, he was being treated the way he deserved. Nothing would please him more than being treated the same way by those foolish Lich King fanatics.

No. He wouldn't be satisfied until the entire world grovelled to him.

As good as it would have been to add the servants to his army, the last thing he needed was two scrawny Dwine. Besides, he could find better makeup artists elsewhere and he needed someone to put a good word in for him. Oh, and that unreliable god of wishes. He dismissed them from the premises.

With a full belly, a brand new look and decent new addition to his undead army, he left the comforts of the Cu mansion for his original destination. As much as he would have preferred to stay and rest in wonderful silks, he had some more important matters to attend to. Excitement overpowered sleep deprivation… Until it didn’t. A few more minutes is all he needed before he felt the Dream Goddess’ pull.

How long had it been since he had last slept in a bed?

‘I suppose another little nap wouldn’t do me any harm.’

Dar’Gehon would have to wait till tomorrow. With a long yawn, he ordered his bone throne to lay him on the bed - carefully of course, so as not to ruin the servant’s handiwork. He was propped up in an upright seated position, silken cushions piled up to hold him in place. As much as he wanted to lie down fully, he didn’t want to risk messing up his wig. Goodness, how he missed the smooth sensation of silk on his skin. Sure, it wasn’t as good as what he was used to back home, but after sleeping in lice-covered straw-mats, stony crevices that made his bones ache and a literal dirt hole with moss, it was a welcome change - even if his body did like that last one. At least his new body didn’t mind the silk. In the back of his mind, he had worried that he would have to sleep in dirt for the remainder of his life.

Mithals closed his eyes, a smile on his face grew before he slept. He couldn't wait to see that Lehelit fool brought to his knees. For now, those thoughts would just grace his dreams.

☽༺𓆩𖤐𓆪༻☾

The noise of desperate breaths and hurried footsteps marred the usual forest sounds. Forest creatures scampered away as a young squire sprinted through the forest path. Colin’s mind raced with the images of that morning. His legs ached, but nothing could compare to the pain in his chest.

“Damn me to the hells! Why am I like this?!”

He was supposed to be a squire. A good squire would have held his ground and cut through those undead bastards just like Dame Gnatta had taught him. He hated himself for feeling the slightest bit of relief when she gave him the order to run. Did she not trust him? She must have sensed his weakness. His cowardice.

The others were right. Gnatta made a mistake that day when she picked him out from all the other children in that village. How could he ever hope to be a knight if all he was content with abandoning the meek to save his own skin?

Tears streamed down his cheeks. A hoarse scream of frustration sent the birds and small mammals into flight - the boy certainly had a set of lungs on him. Perhaps he was better suited as a choir boy for the army. Here he was, running tail between his legs.

There was a monastery nearby - ‘nearby’ meaning approximately two villages and a day-long cart ride away. He prayed to the gods for a horse, but only a Ney passed him by - a kind of horse, but one the size of a small dog. The gods must have had deemed him unworthy of a horse. Completely exhausted, his pace slowed until he was a walking, gasping mess.

It was going to be a long journey for the poor squire.