Rotley Muskmaw - Solo emne. Afsluttet.

The hall was shrouded in gloomy shades of dark shadow.
Its only shimmering light sources, was the scattered pink candles,
which situated on finely polished pedestals, which was engraved with pristine depictions,
of angelic figures, fighting hand-to-hand with monstruous demonic creatures.

Sitting tugged into a blanket of hollow darkness,
a vampire of distinguished facial features. handsome as a fleeting glimpse of paradise.
sat in a throne of ornate jeweled design, fashioned for prestige, not comfort.

In front of the pale moonlight skinned man, sat another man on his knees.
His face was distorted into a fixed grimace of agony and dread.

The kneeling man had the top of his head removed,
revealing the bulking and pulsating brain,
the bodily juices of many descriptions, ran down from the open head wound,
like a sticky river of greasy brain liquid.

The kneeling mans eyes twitched and moved around,
as if caught in a nightmare, awaiting to wake up.

The vampire Rotley Murkmaw,
placed a dessetknife and cake-fork into the depths of mans brainstem.
A gut-twisting sound of howling disbelief and obscene torment,
came drooling out of the kneeling mans now gaping mouth.

His toothless mouth became clear and visible,
his gums showing signs of amateurish stiches,
his bloodstained meat showing a story of painful teeth removal.

But the teeth would not be missing for long.
The vampire started coasting the exposed brain in differently sized teeth fragments,
like one would cover yogurt in fruits of all types and sizes.

The kneeling man, in total discord and dismay,
denied through Rotley power, the right to die,
Was forced to sit through this show of gluttony,
until nothing of him remained.
Once the brain had been devoured,
his feet and hands would serve as a palate cleanser,
before the main course of his beating heart.

Rotley would gladly chunk down each gallon of their fluids,
munch on each inch of their delicious flesh,
and if his magic still has effect after they was torn into bits,
he would keep them alive until his stomach acid had chemically dissolved them.

But all good things must come to an end.
and Murkmaws feast was uncourteously interrupted,
when the doors to his throne room was unceremounsly opened: without so much as a polite knock.

“Sir! The castle is under attack”

Rotley gentlely applied his handkerchief on his lips,
which unexplainedly had achieved to remain ungored by the gory meal,
yet he saw fit to dot his pouty and plump sexual lips.

“That’s no excuse not to knock”

The guard, standing in a combination of scale-mail armor and reinforced leather,
stood in profound confusion. He was new, and not quite accustomed to Rotleys nonchalant demeaner.

“Sir, did you not hear me! you are in danger!”

Rotlet lifted a pointing finger, indicating an interjection to that statement,
he when put down his handkerchief on the exposed brain, and stood up.

The clanking of metal could be heard from the bottom of Murkmaws pointy gentleman shoes,
as if the bottom had some sort of metallic fixture.

“No. You said -The castle is under attack-”

The soldier nodded in perplexed agreement, before Murkmaw elaborated.

“Me being -in danger-.
And my home -being attacked-.
Are not unconditionally linked concepts.
You appear both impolite and linguistically defective”

The guard did not have chance to respond, before a slow-walking Rotley,
had made it all the way over to the newly hired guard,
and with a blurringly fast movement, broke the mans neck.

The guards head was forcefully twisted 180 degrees,
leaving the trained guard a hellish freak of biology,
having his face turned towards his back,
and his backhead facing the statuesque beauty,
the dashingly handsome, etiquette perfect and ancient vampire.

Rotley let the man die. And his body was laying displayed horrifically motionless.

He distained blemished to his perfect façade,
and he would have wanted the guard punishment for disruption and rudeness,
to be more severer and memorable.
But Rotley could sense blood sacks move in his direction, from the hallway.

And true enough, the sanguine juicesboxes came in through the opened door.

Front and center, a man covered in pelt and animal skin,
he had a bearish beard and a sea of wrinkles across his face.
the men behind him, a plentiful collection of battlescars.
their faces was a menagerie of war-stories.

Their weapons heavy and fearsome.
Their armor decorated with newly acquired blood stains.
And their grimaces displaying a pale attempt at intimidation.

“WHO. THE. FUCK. IS. JUNIPER?!?!
NO. I REPEAT. NO! WAY! SHE IS JUST SOME SKANK YOU BONED!
IM AM NOT BOWING DOWN TO SVEN. I WANT TO SERVE MAZIKEEN.
YOU GAVE US WRONG INFORMATION! WE WENT IN BLIND.
NO WAY MAZIKKEN FUCKING GOT DICKED IN THE TITS BY SOME RANDOM BITCH”

Rotley was almost impressed by the man’s vigor.
Almost.
Rotley gave no answer. Asked no question.
He merely walked backwards with a calm step into a pile of obfuscating shadow.

The door closed behind the Slaught loyalists, seemingly by itself.
The pink candles faded, eviscerating their own light.

The next day. Spikes with Slaught members dismembered heads,
still alive and mourning their fates to the melody of screams,
was found decorating the Dark Jewel. Rotleys isolated villa fortress.