Deep within the bowels of the grand palace at Jubilee, Dr. Snatch Adams paced restlessly before an enormous raised stone slab, covered by an equally impressive white sheet. She was normally Perpentarch’s voluptuous personal physician and “assistant”, but she had been left behind when he embarked on his now many months-long journey to some
unknown realms beyond, and subsequently appointed “official court doctor and baby wrangler” by Princess Keelyn after the death of her predecessor in a tragic and somewhat misguided rhino-fluffing incident. A few meters above the ground Keelyn herself gently floated by, held aloft by fell demons
from Agares-knows which plane. In addition to her typical court regalia (which could range from nothing at all to today’s selection of a literal catsuit), she wore aviator’s goggles and fingerless gloves on both her hands and feet.
“What’s the prognosis, doc?” she asked, while making another orbit around the slab and taking a long, contemplative puff on a bubble pipe.
“I’m afraid the patient has expired.” Dr. Adams cried, dramatically gesturing toward the slab with one arm while tossing off the cloth with the other. On the slab lay the corpse of an enormous spike-clad orc, who standing would have easily reached at least nine feet in height. The body was largely well-preserved, except for the head, which someone had replaced with a doll’s. “You see,” declared Adams, almost in tears, “his heart was simply three sizes too small!” Keelyn whimpered and let out muffled sob between puffs on her pipe.
The man who was Keelyn’s retainer, bodyguard, Field Marshal, and nanny stood in the darkened corner of the room, near the stairs. He looked nervously on at the unfolding tableau. He was normally a hard, stoic man. He had long ago once served as a general amongst the Bannor, and there were rumors that he had since found employ amongst many of the nations of Erebus, temporarily even leading some of them outright. It wasn’t the macabre sight of the decapitated orc which troubled him- for he was certainly no stranger to violence and slaughter- but rather Keelyn’s increasingly unstable emotional state. A magical prodigy, Keelyn’s tantrums could easily threaten to bring down the palace around them, if not the entire kingdom. He shuddered to think of the last one, which had ended with drunken Kraken sloshing about the ruins of Jubilee’s distillery.
“Don’t cry, my liege,” the nameless retainer stated. “For while the man on the table may have perished, he hast brought you a gift!” He pointed to the far side of the room, where lay a majestic axe almost the size of a man, perpetually wreathed in unnatural flames. A half dozen of the Balseraph’s finest warriors clustered around it, roasting a whole cow mounted above on a giant spit. “Oh, goody!” Keelyn cried, clapping her hands in glee. The retainer signed. Disaster has been averted again- at least for the next few hours.