A BRIEF MESSAGE FROM THIS CHAPTER’S SPONSOR

Soft, feminine voice: Are you a narrator suffering from disillusionment with your story’s self-important portrayal of its themes, or a wider disinterest in grand narratives centred around obtusely romantic ideals, or neck pain?

Voice: Let us welcome you to Spa-danessellar.

[ELVISH CHANTING]

Voice: Nestled in the heart of elven forests [hushed whispers], our spa-enclave invites you to escape the escapism, find your sanctuary against utopian idealism, and leave the world-building behind. In this pocket plane of tranquillity, you can surrender to the calming embrace of magically-rich waters, as you are surrounded by dryads and pixies [giggling] of harmonious beauty. Feel tension melt away under expert, delicate elven hands, and breathe in the refreshing scent of lembas and athelas. With multiverse-class facilities, including an infinity-edged pool and private trance rooms overlooking rolling hills lit by our miniature sun, every moment is designed to soothe, revive, and resurrect. Treat yourself to this serene retreat and discover a sanctuary where narrative-flow and core themes meet in perfect harmony.

Voice: Welcome, to Spa-denessellar. We welcome you.

Oh… that was definitely worth the arm… and the leg…

Though… maybe, in hindsight, instead of paying the bill (which included services like ‘ancestral aura alignment’ and ‘positive energy surge’) with dismemberment, I could have perhaps achieved a similar effect of enlightened escapism with a tall bottle of neat, spicy dwarven whiskey. All this for some elven zen…

And—oh! I should also, perhaps, add that the arm and a leg in question wasn’t my own. Yes! Don’t you worry, my dear reader, I am still fully membered, ready to narrate! I—I did offer to split the bill with Horpos, but we remembered he owed me for the troll. Don’t worry, though… he’ll regrow them! Right, Horpos?

“Meh…”

Right! Onward with our story, then! I hope you remember just where we were as I’m too relaxed and rejuvenated to delve back into the… expository monologue which I will use no defamatory language or debasing adjectives to address. Gi nathlam hí… Inhale… Exhale…

Our heroes looked on ponderously upon the great leonine figure, discussing silently amongst themselves the implication of such a revelation. “What do you mean?” asked… uhm… Mr. Tall, why not… “Then who are you, truly?” questioned Flinar to ensure variety of character voice.

The solemn lion sighed once more. “Ah… layers upon layers of lies… betrayed by the heart’s desire to slip off this guise… Alas, there’s no turning back now… I must tell you the rest…”

Any day now.

“No, I am not Lord Frauncis Dashweld. That name belongs to a man… nobler than I. Myself, I am called Ratan al-Farouq.”

Ooh. That name carries that distinct flavour of fantasy’s favourite cultures to vandalise. You know… the lands of spices and intrigue and poorly represented (if we won’t call it malevolently misrepresented) historical events and figures. But before we are screen-wobbled off into an expository establishing shot of camel-riding atop dunes, followed by an entire collection of diverse cultures being reduced to bystanding in a fucking bazaar, let’s hope that any one of our characters will intervene and ask questions that doesn’t prompt our quasi-oriental character to stare meaningfully into the distance with emerging duduk music in the background.

“I know what you are!” said Helnen with a tinge of disbelief, finally putting all the pieces of the puzzle together. “You are a… uh… you—”

Ratan al-Farouq nodded in approval. “A de—”

“A demon!”

Ratan al-Farouq sighed with restraint. “A devil, to be exact,” he said, calmly. “But yes, I do belong to an infernal origin, though in recent years I have developed my sensibilities further in curbing my fiendish predispositions.”

Oh, my Prince! A devil! A real, genuine devil! Oh—This is great! Remind me to tell you about how much I love devils! I would greatly appreciate gratuitously expositing about devils and devilry for paragraphs upon paragraphs of thinly veiled fascination with those wonders of myth, but as we’ve already delved into way too much detail in this monumental homage, I have no recourse but to reserve my captivation of devils to be revealed in another, hopefully devil-related chapter (extensively about our infernal fiends).

And yes… I do see the implications of the words I have just uttered above and how they might lead certain members of the public to thinking I actually love devils… like, in real life… No, I don’t. In fact, before certain constituents of our democratic societies elect to locate my narrator’s hideout and tie me to a stake or cut off my head, I should perhaps, in all earnest, declare my utter indifference when it comes to devils… in real life. I don’t love them, people. I ‘love’ them as elements of a story. How they reflect crucial insight into human nature and much more... But I am not a fan of any actual devil actually present in real life. I am not a servant of Lucifer, nor do I proselytise about the merits of any other real-world devil. Not Baal or Beelzebub, certainly not Baphomet or Beleth or Balam or Belial or Barbatos or Bathin or Buné or Berith or (the one I most don’t love) Stolas (who visited me in a dream to warn me of the upcoming visit of Buné, which I’m still anxiously waiting for).

With that hopefully curbing the enthusiasm of our prone-to-panicking moralisers, let me continue with my narration of an encounter with our favourite fiendish folkloric friends. Or Faenlond for short…

“You vile—you’re a devil!” observed the keen-minded Flinar.

“Yes, I am,” Ratan al-Farouq confessed. “I am quite vile and certainly a devil,” he said with opulent calmness.

“This!” exclaimed the excited Mr. Tall. “This changes everything! I have to scrap everything I wrote and compose a completely new leitmotif! Oh, wow! You’re a devil! I didn’t think of that!”

See? He gets it.

“What are you doing here?” asked Helnen with craving curiosity. “Why act like you’re that lord… what’s-his-name?” Helnen wished to say, ‘Why assume the guise of Lord Frauncis Dashweld?’ in that instance, but you know…

“Patience, my fellows…” requested the slightly overwhelmed devil Ratan al-Farouq. “All shall be revealed in due time.”

Inhale… Exhale…

Sighing deeply, our leonine lord-devil finally decided to please explain everything that was relevant to the story. “To answer your questions, I must begin with the curse of our noble friend Lord Dashweld.”

Alright, kiddos! Get your popcorn, get your sweets, put your readers on… it’s fucking exposition time!

“Our good lord was a man afflicted with certain… desires, true, but the extent of his affliction could never reach to the point where I myself have sullied his good name.”

Ooh…

“Realising early on,” continued the patient devil, “his senseless hunger for debauchery and the prospect of such a nature, Lord Dashweld elected to assume a life I had provided for him in our contract. He, before succumbing himself to the vile darkness of genteel irresponsibility, chose the life of simple, honest, lower-middle class existence, while I assumed his guise. From that moment on, it was only a matter of time before all his relatives and acquaintances, and even people who had never met him, became aware of ‘his’ rakishness, styling ‘his’ increasingly shameless antics as a curse. So, you see, the supposed curse of our good Lord Dashweld was in fact a blessing… for him at least, while his name carried on, accursed… I myself can attest to the fact that the actual Lord Dashweld had never been under any curse. Conversely so, in fact, he showed great resilience and responsibility in shuffling off his noble coil, leaving behind the life of profound comfort and opulence to satisfy the cries of his conflicted heart.”

Paragraph break.

“Myself, however, I chose this excessive life to sate my appetite for… vileness. Believing, as a young devil, that the notoriety of a gentleman with a cushy, cradled upbringing, would provide a suitable platform for me to unfold my infernal designs. Through my years and years of gratuitous abuse of any and all power and good-will Lord Dashweld possessed, I have built a wealth and reputation befitting a devil of my standing. I have founded the Brimstone Club, who, with its oblivious membership of rakes, commanded hellfire itself to follow in their passage. I have seduced an untold variety of good-natured, amiable, innocent women and pulled them towards acts of sexual immorality. I have discussed, debated and debased many matters taken as gospel within the bounds of political conservatism. I have pushed impressionable young men, who were alienated by their families and communities, to acts of extremism; such as cross-dressing and loud singing. All this, and more, I have done without a secondary consideration or a single touch of regret.”

This is all shaping up to be one big, convoluted, incomprehensible allegory, isn’t it?

“Sadly, however, this life I feel I must leave behind, for the shame and grief led by such a well-to-do gentleman as I myself is too unbearable even for the blackened, rotten heart of a devil.”

Huh.

“I feel the guilt of high society every time I take another look at the eyes of my butler, Jeeves, who wishes in all earnest to serve my every whim and whimsy. Or the shame I feel when I provide yet another fresh maiden to the bed of my friend Master Horace, who is secretly a homosexual. A secret which is guarded against even his own self, revealed only by my devilish magics. I would wish, instead, to guide him towards a journey of self-discovery… if only I could slip off this mask of insecure masculinity. I would certainly wish for him to be free and open to his own identity… and offending to the sensibilities of the general public.”

Sighing once more with lowered eyes, the devil averted his gaze from the confused faces of his listeners. They, our bravely patient heroes, exhibited great resilience in the face of not knowing what they were supposed to think and feel after all that. But before long, their confusion regarding the intricate social commentary and exploration into identity would be promptly forgotten when Ratan al-Farouq addressed them directly once more. Any moment now.

“As I wish to leave this wretched life behind, I come to you, who have come to me by ill-fate, with a proposal.”

Mother—Yes! An infernal bargain in the flesh! Happening before our very eyes! Let’s fucking go!

Flinar was the first to respond. “We don’t make deals with your kind,” he said, gloomily. C’mon Flinar, don’t be such a killjoy!

Mr. Tall, raising his hand between Flinar and Ratan al-Farouq to serve as a placeholder for his attempts at subtle mediation, said, “Well, let’s hear what the gentlefiend has to say first.” Attacat!

Helnen, knowing full well that she was already involved in a prior devilish pact, chose, after much consideration, to resolve the conundrum by doing what she does best: nothing.

Zez, anxious to intervene before his companions were enticed by the devil’s exploitative offer, realised that he wasn’t a boring know-it-all square and decided, perhaps conveniently, to keep his silence for the time being. Good on you, Zez! At least, for all your arcane impotence, you can help move the plot along! Or at least get out of its way when something worthwhile is just around the corner! Hooray for Zez!

And after all those differing character perspectives, our heroes were once more ready to listen to our devil, Ratan al-Farouq. This time with doubly pricked ears! This master-devil of this haunted manor (which, I know some of you thought belonged to a vampire but hey, devils are cooler!) was poised to soon reveal his bargain, for good or vile… Heh-heh…

“Ah…” relieved Ratan al-Farouq. “Such relief I feel after finally divulging my true nature… it feels even lighter than I remembered. I had carried with my every step for years, this terrible secret, which I held even from my servant of such long years, Jeeves…”

Jeeves, who had been standing there all the while, began to question his analytical thinking skills after that prompt. I mean, come the fuck on, Jeeves, you didn’t even notice that your good master was a fucking lion? How can someone just normalise and ignore that blaring clue? That would require such a sublimely servile outlook that I can’t even begin to imagine how fucked up Jeeves’s upbringing must have been. Such a shame!

Ratan al-Farouq, noticing his servant’s conflicting emotions, offered a small comfort to him. “I apologise, my good man Jeeves. It was simply a truth too horrible to disclose to anyone… even you, my friend.”

Jeeves shook his head. “No apology is necessary, my lord.”

Fucking hell.

“But let us dispense with the civilities,” offered Raton al-Farouq. “The terms of my offer are simple. I simply wish to—”

Hold on! I need to take this call! Here—uh, look at Horpos balancing on one leg with one arm!

“Ow, wowee!”

Hey—uh… thanks for waiting! As narration is a full time job, I sometimes have to make time for my loved ones during work. Again, I appreciate your patience.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Now, without further edging (which is the sexual practice of intentionally delaying climax, for all my prudish readers out there), let’s pick it right back up from the moment Ratan al-Farouq was revealing the terms of his bargain.

“I simply wish to transfer my soul into a phylactery, carried by you to a safe place, where I can exist unbothered and uncivilised for the rest of my devildom. With that, I too can shuffle off this noble coil, as our good man Lord Dashweld had done so once, and leave this life behind. But not before I aid you in fulfilling your quest of finding the lost idol.” He probably learned of this through his infernal mind-reading powers, in an effort to help us maintain brevity by not interjecting additional lines of expository dialogue. What do we say? Thank you, Mr. Devil!

“How do you know of our quest?” asked the ever brooding, ever questioning Flinar. Thanks for that!

“I read your mind as we were speaking,” explained the devil. See? That’s what I was talking about…

“Huh…” replied Flinar, unmoved.

“Yes,” continued Ratan al-Farouq. “I do share a desire to see the idol brought into the Chronicon Cabal’s hands, even if it is the very last act of sparking substantial chaos and disorder before I abandon my corporeality.”

He—he said it! Not me!

Our heroes stoically looked on to hear the rest of the devil’s terms.

“When I’m… gone…” stressed Ratan al-Farouq, perhaps feeling a touch of sadness in his tiny, devilish heart. Aw! “…This estate… these artifacts… the marble wash basins… and douche… all will need a new owner. Frankly, all this and much more would be yours.”

“Uhm…” began Mr. Tall. “How much more are we supposed to picture exactly?”

“A pertinent question,” affirmed the devil. “Exactly two million, seven hundred-thousand, forty thousand, nine hundred and twenty three gold pieces worth of property in land, real estate, livestock, weapons, artworks, jewelry, silks, wine, wool, and magical items would be transferred directly into your hands.”

…

For all you readers out there not too well-versed in the fictional economy of this high-fantasy world… that’s… a lot…

A single gold piece buys you three mugs of modest, vintage ale. Two gold pieces buys a bottle of satisfactory wine. With forty gold pieces one could acquire themselves a healthy, fertile cow. Depending on where you reside, about twelve hundred gold pieces would be enough to make one the sole and proud owner of a midsized, pastoral lodge. Fifty thousand gold pieces are more than enough to kick-start your marauding and reaving career by establishing, maintaining, policing and continually defending your very own bandit hideout, complete with merry men all armed with cutting-edge weaponry and armour. Exactly two million, seven hundred-thousand, forty thousand, nine hundred and twenty three gold pieces would adequately provide for you as you raise one of the largest standing armies the world has ever seen to launch a campaign of conquest that could last, budget-wise, for one hundred and fifteen years, all the while hiring the services of the world’s most expensive prostitute for each day of your military campaign, twice.

And as we all know devils cannot lie in bargains, we can be pleasantly sure of how fucking awesome this deal is beginning to sound. Now, let’s hear the catch.

“What’s the catch?” asked our ill at ease Flinar.

“Yes, well, let us come to that, shall we?” said Ratan al-Farouq. “To discuss your end of the bargain, I wish to converse privately with you, Flinar.”

“Me?” asked Flinar.

Flinar? Why?

“What for?” he asked once more.

“Oh, well…” began Ratan al-Farouq with conspicuous timidity. “To discuss that, we should allow your fellows to… recuperate in another room while we speak à deux. Tête-à-tête, as one says.”

“What?” asked the confused Flinar.

“Privately, my friend.”

Mr. Tall intervened to relieve his demi-elf friend of having to catch social cues, who, due to his fey ancestry, had a hard time reading the room (and was generally challenged in understanding euphemisms and double meanings). “He wishes to speak with you, Flinar. Without us in the room.”

“Oh,” said Flinar. Then, recomposing his heavy air of brooding gravitas, added, “Huh…”

Ratan al-Farouq, awaiting patiently to hear Flinar’s response, nodded to Jeeves, signalling the other guests to be shown outside. Flinar, otherwise engaged in thinking this offer through, did not notice his companions leaving him and the leonine devil alone. He, after raising his head ever so slightly, said, “Fine. We can talk… privately.”

Letting out a hushed, “Excellent,” Ratan al-Farouq nudged his imposing self a bit to the side and patted his claws on the divan which he was seated upon. When he saw that Flinar was unresponsive to his cue, he promptly said, “Come sit by me, Flinar, my fellow.”

Flinar, after a few rugged looks of masculine ponderance, chose to comply. Seating himself by the lion’s side, he, with his heightened senses of smell, inhaled the domineering scents of the lion-devil. Ratan al-Farouq exuded strength and confidence with every fibre of his being, as communicated through his fragrance crowded with traces of hellish planes and the wild savannah. He was an unflinching bastion of true dominance and raw power. Naturally, Flinar reminded himself to be cautious so close to him. The air around them throbbed with the unseen presence of an intense duel between true, unadulterated masculinity and the childish attempts at feigned machismo. Flinar’s teenage girl fantasy vibe (as expertly described by the faithful departed), was certainly no match for Ratan al-Farouq’s effortlessly immense virility.

Breaking the silence was Ratan al-Farouq, with a gentle voice that still betrayed his raw resolution, the devil spoke: “Flinar, my good friend…”

No verbal response was given by Flinar to Ratan al-Farouq’s address.

“I was hoping,” continued the devil, “we might… acquaint ourselves on a more intimate level.”

Flinar, capitalising on this moment to showcase his detached no-nonsense attitude, answered with: “Look, I’m not for lengthy conversations.”

Ratan al-Farouq, reeling back from this riposte with an “Ah,” continued unbothered. “No, you see, I meant more in the sense of… personal company.”

“Still not sure what you’re getting at.”

“I wish to… share a moment of passion with you.” Ratan al-Farouq cleared his throat. “To be very plain, I wish to lay with you.”

“Lay… with me? Like… side by side?

“You misunderstand me,” said the increasingly despairing Ratan al-Farouq. “I wish to… engage in, er, a carnal embrace,” he clarified while fast running out of double-entendre ammunition.

“A what?” asked Flinar.

“To… you know. Fuck you. Up the… posterior.”

“The… bum?”

“Yes. Yes, your bum.”

I would take great pleasure, as your loyal narrator, in telling you that that was the end of our chapter, which, along with three prior ones, would constitute the entirety of the short-lived high-fantasy series, Zez By Misadventure. But I’m afraid, you and me and anyone who might chance upon this rotten piece of literature in any point in the future, has to sit through this tense scene and learn the decision of Flinar regarding Ratan al-Farouq’s indecent proposal. This is due to the fact that the storytelling gods have somehow seen fit to include this exchange in a light-hearted fantasy story intended for children and young adults and are forcing me to continue narrating this fucking scene under pain of brutal, torturous death.

Honest.

“Wha—why?” asked the offended Flinar—oh my dear Prince what the fuck are we doing here anymore?

“Well, simply put…” began Ratan al—please shut the fuck up!

“No,” said Flinar. “No!”

Thank fuck for that!

“Well,” Ratan al-Farouq said, anxiously shuffling around his great weight upon the divan. “Perhaps you would require a…a—an additional moment to… ponder upon my—request!”

“No!” Flinar repeated. “What the fuck? Why would you want to do that?”

“Erm—eh… My good man… please…”

“Shut the fuck up!” said Flinar, having lost any pretence of stoicism, as he quickly got up.

“Flinar, my dear—my dearest of fellows… I urge you to just lis—”

“If you don’t shut your fucking mouth I will fucking—”

“But! But! You haven’t heard—”

“I’ve heard enough you mother—”

“Flinar! Come back! Please! Oh, Flinar!”

That’s right, leave the room Flinar. Leave and please don’t come back. Oh, my dear—what the fuck was all that for? What the fuck kind of dungeon-crawling adventure is that? Fucking hell! I changed my fucking mind! I don’t love devils anymore! I detest them! Fucking detest them! I love pixies and dryads and nymphs and nixies and whatever bumbling, fluffy creatures Ghibli-studio puts out next! Fuck all this Faustian-bargaining shit, I want to narrate an isekai where we are magically transported to a parallel realm made entirely of cotton-candy featuring copious involvement of scantily clad anime elf-girls all ready and willing to mingle! What the fuck is this piece of shit story? It’s not even about Zez anymore! It’s just this weird, tasteless account of what-if-scenarios that should have fucking stayed in that friend group at three in the morning. I am so done with any more of anything else in this fucking story. Whew.

Flinar, who was himself a thoroughly disturbed figure at this very moment, found ample relief in finally reaching the side of his friends. Thank the Fey Queen for friends! After this brief ordeal possibly qualifying as sexual assault, it took a good long time for him to reorient himself. Mr. Tall, however, did not prove quite so patient. He awaited with eager anticipation the result of Flinar and the accursed Ratan al-Farouq’s discussion. There he is now, assailing our weary rogue with questions upon questions on whether or not they have secured the immense wealth promised.

“No!” said Flinar bluntly.

“WHY THE FUCK NOT?” was Mr. Tall’s calm, collected inquiry.

“Because—”

“I don’t want to hear a single because! Did we get the fucking money or not?”

“We didn’t! Get the fuck out of my face before I fucking murder you!”

“YOU PIECE OF INSOLENT SHIT! HOW DID YOU BLUNDER THIS FUCKING—”

Ah… adventurers on their first infernal bargain being refused by an exceptionally upstanding member of the spelunking community. This should serve as a gentle reminder to my observant reader that if ever such a prospect of wealth should appear at their doorstep, they should exhibit profound cognisance by remaining personally within the exchange, further lubricating any efforts towards settlement by ensuring smooth contact and no ripples in the partnership of the settler and settled. Yes.

They should, by all means, alleviate any soreness during or following conduct.

While Flinar and our fiscally competent Mr. Tall were engaged in a polite disagreement, it fell to our perceptive Zez to notice the encroaching smell of burning wood and high-quality paper. It seemed, profoundly, that Zez himself was the only one truly mindful in his surroundings. What an allegory for unlikely heroism from humble, everyday people. Yes, quite…

While Zez was about to reveal to his companions the very possible bodily threat of dying in a fire, he also noticed that Helnen, our cunning tart, was not present among them. It seemed that our shrewd member had rolled high on her stealth and left the side of her colleagues without saying a single thing. What a suspenseful evening!

“People!” Zez addressed his companions who were too engaged in civil dispute to hear him. “People!” he pleaded once more. “We need to get out of here!”

“No! You fucking—how would you like your own arse fucked?” Flinar was busy asking.

Mr. Tall answered: “I WOULD BEG FOR HIM TO—”

“People!” Zez kept trying. “Come on! Please!”

“My dear guests!” Jeeves arrived to intervene on the conflict. “Please lend me your ears a moment,” he said calmly, with dignified composition.

Flinar and Mr. Tall resolved to quiet down and stare grudgingly at one another while ever so slightly turning their attention towards the esteemed butler.

Jeeves, with professional equanimity, cleared his throat. “We seem to be experiencing a house fire. Please follow me in an orderly fashion as I commence the safety procedures.”

Flinar and Mr. Tall, realising upon the understated gravity of the butler’s words, and the absence of their mischievous homegirl, resolved at once to not panic, and simply follow Jeeves’s instructions, who had assumed command as the emergency safety officer.

Observing safe conduct and restraining their fear of imminent death, the heroes of the Forlorn Three followed the guidance of Jeeves, who, with his high-grade professionalism, seemed to be absorbing their attention and metaphorically sucking them in like a miniature black hole. Glancing along the way at the emergency evacuation instructions hung upon the walls, they reached a bronze cabinet integrated into the wall. Jeeves, with practiced fingers, made haste in unlocking the cabinet’s three-step authentication procedure, designed to authenticate that they were, in fact, experiencing an emergency scenario. After unlocking the bronze cabinet with his memorised authentication code, entering in his security credentials and applying his live biometric data (which the cabinet required an additional thirty seconds to authenticate); Jeeves hastily pulled on a great bronze lever.

Within seconds, the entirety of the great house came alive with blaring, loud hornpipe sounds, indicating a state of alarm.

Jeeves, turning to his guests, announced: “Now we can evacuate the premises in an orderly fashion.”

And, boy, did they evacuate.

Power walking through halls of tremendous wealth that were soon to be destroyed, our brave observers of courteous safety conduct, reached, within four minutes, to one of the thirteen emergency exits. At the end of a wide antechamber, filled with delectable furnishings and décor, was a great double gate, with solid gold handles. Jeeves escorted them to the threshold, nudging calmly and opening the gate outward. After that, he remained standing with servile dignity.

“You’re not coming with us?” asked the somewhat moody Mr. Tall.

“I am afraid not,” answered our good man Jeeves.

“Why not?” growled Flinar in response.

“This… house,” replied Jeeves, ponderously. “I cannot leave it… I cannot leave my master. All that he built, through his years and years of service to the world and its citizens… All will be lost… As well as… my master himself.” A grieving tone emerged from under his layers upon layers of professional impartiality. “I must…” Jeeves sighed, “…stay with him… Until the bitter end. Among all his belongings I alone am the one he would miss the most. That, I am sure of.”

Wow… That is… that is… a stunning, visceral display upon the ruthless conditioning of our proud paw-licking sycophantic minion… Anyway, let’s give him his fucking moment.

“A captain goes down with his ship…” reflected Jeeves. “And so shall the first officer go down with him…”

Fucking hell.

“But alas… this is no time to dwell on life’s misgivings…”

You don’t say.

Jeeves, raising his gaze from his melodramatic soliloquy, met the eyes of his guests for one last time. “I would wish to help you complete your quest… if that would complete my master’s wish… Yes… His, final wish…”

Unlike our selfless, understated hero, I imagine my scholarly readers do know, that devils do not die in fires. They fucking respire fire.

“Beyond this door you will find the entrance to your… dungeon, as you say. Follow the blue marked corridors, not the red marked ones. No—not them. They lead directly to my master’s beloved pet. You would be wise to avoid her.”

Ooh! Suspenseful!

“By following the blue marked corridors, you will reach the vestibule guarding the idol of Tathor Vexis, snuck safely behind a password-protected ancient gate. The man who chose the password is long gone… buried beneath the annals of time. But, before his untimely demise, he had imparted with us the word of passage.”

Well, let’s fucking hear it.

“The password is: agave.”

Huh. That seems to be par for the course in practicians of black magic.

“And without further ado… or embarrassment…” Jeeves sighed, “…I bid you goodbye, my fellows. May chance smile upon you.”

Our heroes, realising neither they nor the story had any more time to dwell dismally upon this protracted farewell speech, chose to simply look mournful as Mr. Tall offered a brief, “Thank you…” And as it would be too convenient for him to just shut the fuck up after that, he added: “For everything…”

“Well,” began Jeeves and, unwilling to just let his guests and the story continue without any further delay, added: “A good man serves a good master.”

Thank you for that brief insight into the merits of lowly, servile sycophaty, our good man Jeeves.