“Did … did you just call the demon lord ‘an overdramatic bitch’?”, the little blue goblin looked up from his quill.

I nodded, “Yes, yes I did.”

He blinked at me, “Do you want me to relay that as spoken?”

“Yes, please.”

The goblin looked increasingly uncomfortable, “His Majesty is temperamental, perhaps it would be best if I were to paraphrase for you. For instance, ‘His Majesty’s countenance could perhaps be enhanced by –“

“He’s an overdramatic bitch,” I cut the little man off. “And I want you to tell him exactly that.”

The goblin gulped, “Pl-please wait here, ma’am.” He scurried out the back door of the room, presumably to relay my insult to His Majesty the Demon Lord of Madness.

I seated myself on the ornate couch robbed from some manor or another. It was a very old antique, original upholstery, only somewhat ruined by the demonic sigils roughly carved into the wood. Emblematic of the whole place, really. Nothing original, just slap-dash devilry on top of what could have been a perfectly respectable castle. So very gauche.

The goblin peeked back into the door, “His Majesty demands your presence ma’am,” he whimpered.

I tried hard to hold back a smile. I had passed the first test. “By all means, lead me to him.” I followed the goblin down the hall, past countless blood-tinged weapons tacked on to the wall where tapestries and portraits would normally hang. Almost all hung at an angle, off-kilter. Blood and rust mixed together to the point that it was hard to tell where one stopped and the other began. It made it look cheap rather than threatening.

We strode into the throne room where the man himself sat. He had black hair, but the strawberry-blonde roots close to his scalp revealed his true hair color. Small trickles of sweat suggested that the red streaks across his skin were probably artificial dye. A large mace lay to the left of the throne, despite the fact that he was clearly right-handed, propped up by skull that looked like it might have once belonged to a sheep, but was definitely not human. Very sloppy.

I knelt in front of him and bowed, demonstrating proper decorum even though he almost certainly couldn’t tell the difference, “I greet You Majesty.”

He glared down at me. His wrath, at least, seemed genuine, “I want you to repeat what you said to my herald in front of me, if you have the courage.”

I looked up at him, careful to keep my expression inscrutable, “Your Majesty, although you have demonstrated undeniable military prowess, you will never truly be able to rule your territory. You have the instincts of a monarch, but you are an overdramatic bitch and the only way you will ever be taken seriously as a nation is if you reform your image. You are the laughingstock of the century and even your own subjects don’t take you seriously, assuming they are out of sword-range. Sir.”

His eyes burned, “How dare you insult me to my face. I will have your head for this! You will be flayed and your body hung at the castle walls as an example for any who –“

“This is what I’m talking about!” I interrupted him, “No one flays anyone anymore. Even you have never flayed anyone. You have the trappings of a violent and malevolent demon lord but if trappings are all you have then it just makes you look like a melodramatic bitch.”

He fumed, silently, reflexively gripping the mace. I started to suspect he wasn’t strong enough to lift it.

“You have two possible paths forwards,” I pressed my advantage. “You can start to follow through on your threats. Make your malevolence more than just trappings. Kill, plunder, maraud. Perform dark rituals with actual human blood. Lean into your rule by fear.”

He sneered in a practiced motion, “How do you know I won’t start by flaying you?”

I smiled sweetly at him, “You don’t have the stomache for it.” He stared back at me, astonished. “Your other option is to reverse course. I said you have the right instincts, and you do. The first thing you do with your conquered territory is purge corrupt officials, order a census, and rewrite the tax code. Your agricultural policy is inspired. Anyone who hasn’t gotten within eyesight of the melodramatic mess you call your ‘capital’ believes you to be a competent administrator. You’ve even managed to keep the peace between the monsters and humans under your rule. If you stopped trying to be a ‘demon lord’ and focused just on being a ‘lord’ you could make this whole operation much more efficient.”

He raised an eyebrow at me, his demon lord persona slipping rapidly, “I suppose I can guess which you would prefer.”

“Yes, well, I admit I have ulterior motives. But to be frank, I’ve never seen the Hinterlands so prosperous before.”

“I’ve worked hard to create this monstrous persona. I wanted the outer kingdoms to fear me so they would leave us alone.”

“And it will be twice as much work to undo it. What you need is a very competent secretary,” I grinned at him and pulled a business card out of my bag, “and I have lots of experience.”

Songs in the Key of B

"Did I stutter?" Braggocio the bard asked the demon lord smugly while tuning his lyre. Pioustle the paladin covered his mouth with one hand, the other rapidly made the sign of the cross over and over. Wisdomous the wizard got a chuckle out of it. Brabous the barbarian grunted in approval. Majick the mage remained stoically quiet as usual.

Fire raged from the eyes of the goat like demon lord. "How dare an insect such as yourself speak to me, the embodiment of suffering in such a manner!" The demon lord bleated out.

Pioustle interjected, still making the sign of the cross. "There's no need to resort to name calling, that's just in poor taste." He said meekly.

Braggocio scoffed. "Did I ask you for your opinion......bitch. Look at this guy! Sitting on a throne made of human skulls, walls papered with writhing flesh, and don't even get me started on the fountain of blood. All a front to hide how much of a bitch he is!"

The party fell silent, unsure of how to proceed. They prepared for the worst. The demon lord calmly sipped from its golden goblet. "Takes one to know one."

"Fuck off goat bitch! I'm the greatest songsmith in all the lands! My funky tunes allow me to do what I do best. And that's slay bitches! Bitch!" Braggocio played a spicy lyre riff, made Majick go weak in the knees, good thing her long midnight blue cloak hid her figure.

The demon lord cast his goblet to the ground. "Enough of this! No more spicy licks, or bone rattling riffs! Prepare for battle!"

Braggocio smiled. "You've already lost.......bitch."

"Fools! You've yet to even glimpse a fraction of the terror I can cause!"

"But while you were distracted you lost count, like a bitch."

"Count of what?" The demon lord quickly counted the number of adventurers in his chambers, five.....wait......where's the short one? The flash of a steel dagger the last thing the demon lord saw as Ryglar the Rogue removed its head from its body. He gave the party a thumbs up, showing off his new trophy.

"Told you it work...........bitches." A rousing victory riff echoed off the walls of the demon lord's chamber, Braggocio dubbed the tune "The Bitch's Ballad"

"WHAT?"

"You heard me. I said you should stop being an over-dramatic bitch."

The giant horned being stomps over on cloven hoof and looms over me. He gives me a baleful side-eye and quietly growls "Do You Have No Fear, Little Being?"

"Well no, not as much as I had before you started monologuing."

A deep snort flattens my hair, the view of his cavernous mouth further supporting my hypothesis. His breath smells like clover.

"I Will Repeat Myself. My Demons Wiil Trample Your Armies ..." I nod. Makes sense.

"... Gore Your Bowels From Your Bodies..." Well that tracks too.

"... Eat Your Fle..."

I raise my hand. "I'm going to stop you right there. That's when I knew that you were at least partially bluffing."

The mighty being puffs himself up as if to bellow, then deflates. In a much more normal voice, said "Damnit. Alright. What gave me away?"

"Form follows Function. While a predator may have legs as long as yours, your eyes are on the side of your head. Only prey animals have horns, predators just use their teeth and claws. And THAT was the biggest give away. Your teeth are flat - built for grinding, not ripping and tearing flesh. Your entire species is vegetarian, isn't it? And if you're bluffing about that, then what else are you bluffing on?"

"... Damnit."

"Of course I did, Telemachus."

The Paladin's holy plate, still somehow resplendent despite being bathed in the blood and ichor of the Demon Lord's servants, grated slightly as he shifted uncomfortably. He spoke to the cloaked figure of his Ranger comrade.

"Boone, we're journeyed leagues. We have slain and saved across the breadth of a continent. We have done deeds that will live in song and saga for ages. All of this simply to reach this creature that you now name an," Telemachus' lips twitched as he spoke the phrase "overdramatic bitch."

"Sure as hell, Telly. And here's the what and why." Boone's hood fell back to reveal a close-cropped scalp over a haggard and stubbled face, one eye clearly taken in the receipt of a wicked scar, only to be replaced with a ghostly circle of black fire bisected by two perpendicular lines. He spat a stream of juice from the plug of matter he was chewing. The grass it landed on began to wither.

"You see, he ca'int do shit."

Boone held up his hand to silence Telemachus as he began to stutter a protest.

"Yeah yeah, Reaver of Souls, Bane of Mortals, whoop de doo. He has power, yes. But he ca'int come down here and do anything hisself 'cause the second he does the Lord of Light will step down from High Elysium and hammer-dick him back to the basement of Stygium. He is not free to act in the mortal planes. He needs servants to carry out his will, just as your god needs you, Telly."

"Yes, but servants he has, Boone." Telemachus gestureds broadly around at the blasted, pierced, hewn and bludgeoned corpses and the ominously rumbling ruin that had been their fortress.

"Sure thing, but ol' Darky over there can't make this plane his own until the hearts of all are turned to him." Booned rubs his eyes in exasperation. "And that ain't gettin ready to happen! Ever. What's his whole pitch, bud?"

"That he shall plunge the realms of mortality into everlasting darkness and despair, forever to corrupt and consume the souls of men." Telemachus replies.

"Right." Boone steps up and claps his hand on Telemachus' gleaming pauldron. "Who, precisely, in the shit wants that?" He spat another stream onto the weeds of the ritual courtyard, further blighting an already terrible locale. "Present corpse-any excluded, heh."

"That sorta black-hearted dumbassery only works for the sort of back asswards losers who think being nasty trash is a means to power, and that's most of nobody. Hell, I'm more of a bastard than most folks and it don't even sound good to me. Folks just want to have enough to get by and some extry for a hootenanny every so often. Tell em you're gonna piss all over that and gnaw their souls to boot? Hell. It ain't ever gonna work."

Telemachus stands dumbstruck. Then chuckles, his entire titanic frame shaking. In a moment a laugh of pure delight roars from his throat, the sound and mirth so pure it causes the sun to beam down a little brighter, and the weeds afflicted by Boone's venom to regain some of their vigor.

"By the Light, my friend, you're right!" Still thundering with humor, Telemachus turns toward the shadowy figure of the Demon Lord, and points a mocking finger. "Khord Malum, First Seed of Destruction, Ruiner of Faith, Acid of Oaths, Thorn of Discord, you are SUCH AN OVERDRAMATIC BITCH!"

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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