Within the dread chambers of his fortressed Keep, the Tyger Warlock stirred from a rare sleep. He emerged out of a tangled mass of red silk, which only slightly recharged his dark necromantic energies. No, red silk was not enough and he needed much more fuel. The people of the Fifty Kingdoms were questioning his power, his fitness to rule, the wisdom of his sorcerous practices. It was time to work his magicks and shake them from regularity, from normalcy, from the mundane.
He donned his warlock’s robe, more red silk, and stepped out to his anterior chamber.
“Inanna, Belili,” He incanted. “Attend me, my goddesses, my sacred temple Scarlet Women of Babalon.”
They appeared before him in a blinding flash, conjured by magic.
“My Lord, Scion of Adonis,” Inanna greeted him.
“We’ve prepared your sacred chalice,” Belili handed him a shiny gold goblet, which he greedily took to his lips and gulped. Viscous crimson blood dribbled from his chin as he finished the drink and threw the goblet aside, smashing it to bits all over the floor.
“Ahhhh. Thank you, goddesses, thank you. But where’s Freyja?”
Inanna cast her eyes to the floor mournfully. “My Lord, the sacrament of the tiger’s blood came at a price. Freyja was unfortunately mangled when she collected its blood for you.”
The Tyger Warlock shook his head, sighing. “Ayayay….well, at least in the short time she was with us, I showed her what MAGIC was! Belili, have the Troll slaves clean up the mess. What else?”
“We have scheduled meetings with various bards and royal messengers, who wish to craft songs of your latest deeds.”
“Yeah. Yeah okay. What else is going on?”
“Several messages….Sauron, Voldemort, The White Witch, Saruman….offering their advice and counsel….”
“Love those guys!” he smiled, slamming his hand on the table. “See, they’re – they’re radicals. Radical, radical dark overlords, all those guys! They see that there’s you know, the commoners, the so-called 'destined heroes' with magic swords, and you know what? Boring. Just boring and stupid. And then there's the people - us, you see - who are different, who are special. Winners! WHAT ELSE?” he barked impatiently.
“Love those guys!” he smiled, slamming his hand on the table. “See, they’re – they’re radicals. Radical, radical dark overlords, all those guys! They see that there’s you know, the commoners, the so-called 'destined heroes' with magic swords, and you know what? Boring. Just boring and stupid. And then there's the people - us, you see - who are different, who are special. Winners! WHAT ELSE?” he barked impatiently.
“Finally, my Lord, the matter of the Troll uprising in the Tweet Lands…”
He paused and faced his goddesses with grim determination, dark thoughts flashing through his brain at impossible speeds. “Oh really? THEY’RE still complaining about the measly $1.8 million gold pieces I collect from them? Well, you know what that means, don’t you - DON’T YOU? I’ll demand $3 million MORE! I need more power. MORE MAGIC POWER! “
He raised his fists to the air. Dark storm clouds gathered above the Warlock’s Keep, and jagged spears of magic lightning pierced the sky
“Contact The Alchemist at once – and have him deliver to me the powders from the Rock of Bol’Y’Vea!”
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