So That Must Be A Mango ... Hmm ...

I have breached the wall and made a run for the throne room. Thing is, once there it’s not really clear where “there” actually is. You’d think with all the ornate tapestry and fresh exotic foods pouring forth upon hand-fashioned tables of the finest imported woods that I had entered the very chambers of the monarch; but there is simply no sign of a threshold, of a promontory housing the painstakingly embroidered and cushioned marvel that seats the hindquarters of his highness.

Peculiar.

Peculiar to think that for all the effort spent in reaching this place, all the blood shed, lives lost, and souls consumed by the darkest depths of my blade, that I am presently at the place for which has been my calling and yet simultaneously nowhere in particular.

It is, quite possibly, my due. And who could argue with that?

We work overtime in our land, and it is my lot to serve as both laborer, journeyman-warrior, and fool. Heavy emphasis on the latter. (Not so much the other two.)

All that has been spent in the name of this quest - and yet the teeth of the ravenous just beyond the great door, chattering, drooling, and stunningly mad with rage - the time is nigh.

It all began with a message brought forth on the wings of a legless eagle (unable to land) - a scrolled plea to rescue these lands from the grip of the horrid Blind Butcher who has ruled over his minions without remorse, without mercy, and without the slightest shred of anything but greed and wanton lust.

Here in his throne room, the very place from which his demonic orders were set forth like a plague upon his subjects causing previously unimaginable agonies.

And yet, the gnashing outside the door, impossible to ignore, work of the very same subjects I would have thought to have been prostrate before my feet as I made my triumphant march towards victory, and their ultimate emancipation. They are undeniably enraged at my presence, clearly motivated without distraction to take my soul to the darkest place a man could imagine, and then much darker still.

What hold must this Blind Butcher have over them? What powers are contained in the four-fingered hand of his perverted lordship? How is it that a great many people could come together, in unison, and defend the master who has forsaken them time and again?

It is not clear.

I do, however, find solace in one single and seemingly irrelevant mote of insignificance, and it is this practically imperceptible bit of knowledge which will insulate me from the pounding madness which awaits me beyond the rapidly deteriorating door between us ...

... the first cut is always the worst.

And this strangely fragrant fruit? Very, very tasty.