The sound of a metal goblet impacting the forehead of someone rang out through the throne room, followed by the incoherent screeching and screaming of a man who was so heavily inbred that it was painfully obvious just by looking at him. The man thrashed around like an infant in the midst of a violent temper tantrum, despite being over 30 years old, but no one admonished him for it. His wild screeching turned into a rambling and train of thought rant that was routinely interrupted by yet more bouts of childish fury.
This man, clad in the finest of robes despite crying and flailing like a toddler, was the King of the Trelawney Kingdom. Millenia of inbreeding had resulted in the form that he took, a true marvel of what eugenics does to animals and plants alike.
He had a jaw that jutted out in a massive underbite that never was able to stay closed, resulting in him always drooling. Both of his eyes constantly wandered and either he had no control over them, or he did not care enough to maintain it. One of his arms was longer than the other by about four inches and both of his hands were too misshapen to even clutch his cane or scepter. He had a hunch back that twisted him slightly to the side and one of his feet seemed to have been put on backwards and at an angle.
These were just a few of the visible signs of his ‘Pure-blooded Pedigree’. The less visible signs made themselves known at almost all hours of the day. From his random breaks into animal noises and inane ramblings and rants to his utter inability to engage in meaningful conversation and many, many others, it was obvious that it would be best for his line to die with him.
Unfortunately for his nation, its people and any children he may eventually have, his line had existed unbroken for ages and no one in the court had any intention to end it anytime soon.
His once-great line was, by now, nothing more than a line of puppets to the far less inbred, yet still remarkably inbred, nobles and advisors.
Who was this freak of a King? His name was Zayrek Narude Trelawney, first of his name and likely the last. What few moments of clarity he experienced were filled with mad ramblings that were the hallmark of his kingdom. They consisted mainly of rants about genocide, slavery, torture and other nasty things, all directed at ‘Non-Human Trash’.
Yes, it was not just the King and his court that were so genocidally inclined, but the masses as well. This was a well-known fact to the wider world, but remarkably there were still some boneheads who thought they could trade and do business with them without dying (or worse) despite their obvious racial differences. There was a near 100% chance that a non-human entering the Trelawney Kingdom would not emerge alive/ intact once encountered by a citizen.
So, why had the King thrown such a tantrum, you ask? It is simple; the force sent to apprehend the Tyrant of Red Mountain had been utterly crushed, despite the numerical advantage they had. The man whose head had been hit by the gold goblet was the one who organized the attempt who had, for quite a long time, been a proponent of using cheap, conscripted peasants armed with mass produced spears to overwhelm any enemy force. His ‘ingenious strategy’ had been a failure numerous times, but he always had people survive who he could throw the blame on. Not today, as the entire force had been wiped out to a man.
No survivors meant no one to take the fall and earn the King’s ire in his stead. So, he was being carted off for a public execution while the rest of the court and advisors simply waited for the inbred freak of a King to calm down and be relatively easier to deal with. It might take minutes, or hours or even days or weeks, but eventually Zayrek would calm down and forget all about the past. So, they waited and schemed in silence about how to take advantage of the failure and exit of one of their fellows and how to turn it to their advantage.
…
Three days later and the King was still in the midst of his tantrum, only stopping to eat, drink and sleep. He raged in all other situations, even on the toilet when no one was around to hear him. Still, this gave opportunities for the court to scheme aloud, for when the King entered one of these fits, he quickly lost track of reality (or what little of it that he was aware of).
In a candle-lit room far from the crying King’s gaze and ability to hear, the advisors plotted. Chief among them was the one who had the King’s ear and acted as his voice. He was known as Jaffe Arre of Dolte. He was a man from a far-off land that he claimed consisted mostly of vast deserts and occasional oases where settlements were founded. He claimed that his home city of Dolte was a beautiful city where gardens hung in the sky and that he had been cast out for trying to make it a ‘Human Utopia’. Whether there was any truth to that, remained unclear.
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The man was supposed to make the nation function properly by ‘following the every word of the King’, yet every time he tried to do so his changes would end poorly for all involved. So, after trying and failing enough times, he simply decided to be corrupt and, lo and behold, he actually managed not to fuck things up. So, a new status quo was set and Jaffe Arre could not be happier with his large, unwilling slave harem, mountain of embezzled funds, illicit narcotics, personal pleasure city and thousands of yes-men.
However, for the first time in a long time, the gathered personages were discussing something not related to corruption.
“I take it the Eye has been used again. Where is the blasted Tyrant now?”
Jaffe Arre twirled his long, thin moustache that ended in braids near the base of his throat, the rest of his facial har forming a goatee that was perfectly maintained.
“Yes, my Lord. The Eye has been used repeatedly, as much as possible to ascertain the location of the Tyrant and we have found that he has already made it to Red Mountain.”
“Good, good.” Jaffe Arre nodded sagely, his black, ruby-studded hat preventing him from moving his head too fast. “And what of the interloper? They are still with the Tyrant?”
“Yes, my Lord. We know not their name, but we are able to track them all the same, just like the Tyrant. If we only knew their name, we could actually get a better picture of them, but all we have are faded outlines and silhouettes. We can’t even get a read on its voice or scent, but what little we can make out had put people into a near coma.”
Jaffe Arre let a sinister smile creep across his face as he twirled his moustache.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeexcellent. May I have a try at the Eye? I have a hunch that my knowledge gleaned from the Libraries in my homeland may provide the name of this… interloper.”
“You may, my Lord. You have granted us such wonderful gifts that it is only fair that you are allowed to use the Eye.”
“Good, goooooooooood! Then make an appointment for me! I have to prepare!”
Jaffe Arre strode out of the room and went straight to his personal quarters. He locked the door with every one of the fifteen different locks and sealed the windows closed while blocking out the outside with heavy curtains. He confidently walked over to a dusty old mirror that was covered with a heavy blanket and tore off the cloth.
The mirror was foggy and reflected nothing, despite looking perfectly fine to anyone who could have seen. Jaffe Arre smiled as he looked into the mirror, the only thing beyond the fogginess that could stand out to anyone viewing was that there was no reflection of Jaffe Arre, let alone anything in his room.
“Yr urti ksrv marl’kt ds vr, szzrv’kym!”
The utter nonesence coming from the right hand of the King would have astounded anyone who heard it, as it seemed as though Jaffe Arre was speaking in tongues. The man got down on one knee and bowed, his hat sticking onto his head despite the odd angle. There was silence for a time, but anyone who could have looked into the mirror would have seen what appeared to be black flames filling what appeared to be a room behind a glass screen.
Jaffe Arre’s eyes went white, then black as he listened to... something.
After a while, he spoke again, “Srrrtyik xqtir mlad’vos nyek cr uaoeiy’yyskl.”
The flames vanished and Jaffe Arre took the blanket and covered to ‘mirror’ with it.
His eyes had permanently changed from the brown he had originally to the color of an old scab. He walked over to another mirror and looked at himself.
“Ah, the foolishness of the Races knows no bounds.” Jaffe Arre said to himself.
Laughing cruelly, he turned and picked up the cane that he had left on the ground near the covered ‘mirror’ and looked into the magicite crystal that was its head. If one looked close enough, they could see what appeared to be thousands if not tens of thousands of faces appearing and vanishing deep in the blood-red gem. Among them was a face that was remarkably similar to his own. No, it was his own.
But if he was in the crystal, then who was standing there?
Jaffe Arre, or whoever was in his body now, smiled a predatory grin as they unlocked the door with magic and walked outside to set the final pieces in motion. Their masters had a grudge to settle, and they were selected to enact their bloody vengeance.
With the unknowing aid of one of their masters’ long-time acquaintances, that is.
The Tyrant of Red Mountain had schemed for so long, but no one schemes better than an Infernal. A few pieces needed to be put in their proper place, a few actors need ed to make their entrances and exits and lastly, the stage needed to be set for the true ruler of the Infernals to take control over this place after all the sinful souls here had been…. Dealt with.
They were really looking forward to meeting Vaile, the being powerful and terrible enough to have the entire top five echelons of Infernal society worshiping him. A peek was all they needed to make sure that everything was in order.
A feeling ran through their body that was altogether unwelcome. Ducking into a bathroom, they dropped their pants and looked down.
“Fucking Vaile-damnit. I forgot their body was male…”