Breeding Madness 1.4

Chapter 4 - The Slug’s Court

Zethras emerged from the basement level, walked through Grovewick Manor in a daze, and headed to its court. He’d made this journey nearly every day for the past three years and could walk the same path with his eyes closed. In fact, there were so many nights where his studies kept him awake long beyond the midnight hours that Zethras was confident he’d dozed off on his way before and had awakened directly in front of the doors of his destination.

Of course, it helped that the manor was small amongst others in Hollobell. As one of the least powerful noble families in the town, Grovewick Manor matched the status of those it belonged to. Middling merchants by nature, House Grovewick would’ve been mere commoners were it not for their being a fabled knight of some renown gracing their distant ancestry.

Sir Sluggett was a noble warrior who legend has it was cursed by a witch and had his head transformed into that of a hideous slug. Despite this horrific appearance, he remained true of heart and served the Count of Hollobell with dignity and grace. After many years, the Count rewarded the loyal mollusk man with the title of Lord and granted him a small plot of land to call his own. It was a charming story with enough historical documentation to back it up, and Zethras could recite all of the man’s exploits as his current employer never shut the hell up about his beloved ancestor.

Zethras wasn’t convinced that any of this noble folk hero’s blood still coursed through the veins of his descendants. As far as he knew, Sir Slugett’s progeny have been living off his fame and good name ever since. It made sense, given how little else the lot of them had going for them in the years since. You’d think at least one of Sluggett’s descendants would’ve used the advantages they were blessed with to make something of themselves, but no. Just Zethras’s luck to have arrived in Hollobell just in time to serve the worst Lord Grovewick yet.

Zethras thought back to the circumstances that found him drifting here so many seasons ago. Three years ago, he was at a low point in his life, which itself wasn’t anything out of the ordinary except that this one somehow trumped all the other depressive depths he’d found himself in. He’d just lost a job in Perlshaw, if you could call it a job. Zethras was truthfully nothing more than a street performer at the time trying to dazzle the passing crowds with a bit of magic, but his act was so pitiful and devoid of the intended magic that the only gold he saw came from people who believed him to be some sort of high-concept jester playing out a piece of performance art.

Eventually, these people realized there wasn’t a hint of irony in Zethras’s performance and that he was just that painfully unskilled. Unable to find another job in the port city after his ironically-earned income dried up, Zethras was left aimless once again. He’d wandered to just about every major city in Rhoivan by that point, dipping his fingers in this and that, never lasting long in whatever career he pursued. His best bet was to head west into the province of Arrark, but as he stared at his map, it occurred to him that he’d never visited the city of Hollobell.

The reason for that was simple- he didn’t want to linger near the border with his home province of Tior- and Hollobell wasn’t too far from the land of magic. Yet the longer he considered his options, the longer an inexplicable urge to give the place a try took hold of him. To this day, Zethras still couldn’t explain why he gave in to his compulsion, and he now dearly wished he hadn’t.

When Zethras arrived through the warpstone network, he fully expected to get the usual treatment. His ugliness inspired whispers and jeers wherever he went, made even worse by his general appearance as a mysterious sorcerer who obviously leaned in the direction of the dark arts. Instead, he found that much of the townsfolk were preoccupied with a recent death that’d gotten everyone talking amongst themselves behind closed doors and in dark corners.

The subject of everyone’s secretive chatter turned out to be the mysterious and untimely death of Lord Grovewick’s prior court mage. It had happened only a few days before his arrival, but it must’ve been a big deal since nearly everyone Zethras met had something to say about it. He’d heard a different version of events from many people to the point where even now, Zethras had no idea what happened to the poor bastard. Some say it was a spell gone wrong, others that he displeased his Lord and was punished as a result.

The real takeaway for Zethras was that there was a job opening for a lucky mage, and he was shameless enough to apply for any position no matter how vastly underqualified he was. The timing seemed too good to be true, especially for someone with a pervasive aura of continual misfortune like himself. At the time, he believed it would’ve been foolish not to apply. If only he knew what the next few years of his life as the court mage of Baldwin Grovewick would’ve entailed, Zethras never would’ve bothered.

Too late for that now, though. He shook the thoughts away as he approached the double doors leading to his Lord’s court. Zethras paused before them, needlessly fussing with his robes and attempting to straighten his back as best he could. When he could no longer find any way to stall, he sighed and stepped inside.

It was a small court matching the smallness of the manor, and the room felt full with only two dozen or so guests in attendance. A few of the house’s knights, some business associates, and a healthy scattering of servants took up most of the available space, and Zethras couldn’t make his way through the crowd without brushing against someone. This was clearly as much of an annoyance for everyone else as it was for him, evident by how they recoiled and tried to move aside only for the lack of space to stop their attempt short.

Zethras was delighted that he disgusted them as much as they did him, taking any petty payback he could get. Keeping his face neutral was a struggle as he moved through the room, fighting back a mixed expression of amusement and disgust. The closer he came to his Lord, however, the more the paradigm shifted toward disgust.

Sitting in his lackluster seat of power positioned in front of an aging oil portrait of the great Sir Slugett was the knight’s distant descendant, Lord Baldwin Grovewick. It was a shabby-looking throne of bogwood that suited the even shabbier-looking man who called it his own. Looking at the two of them back to back, Zethras figured there must’ve been some of the old knight’s blood left in the family, after all. The resemblance was uncanny, give or take a few hundred pounds, but at least Sir Slugett had the excuse of falling under a witch’s curse as to why he looked the way he did.

Drooling with leftover juices and crumbs from his sumptuous breakfast, Lord Grovewick’s glazed-over eyes that seemed to pop out of his skull were always scanning over his surroundings and watching the people around him- particularly his staff. He was dressed in fine silks that were ill-fitting, stain-ridden, and entirely wasted on him, while one of his legs was propped up on a padded ottoman as usual.

This leg was one of the most repulsive features of an already putrid man.

Lord Grovewick suffered from a magical variation of gout that occasionally cropped up in Drerland and the lands nearest to it. Known as murkleg, Grovewick’s limb from toe-to-knee was riddled with swollen, green-glowing lumps ranging from the size of a grape to the size of an apple. They smelled foul, were near impossible to treat even for a skilled alchemist, and were probably some form of cosmic punishment for the man’s numerous sins, Zethras surmised.

Sitting sideways on the Lord’s good leg was his pick of the day, a young Drerlander girl dressed in the manor’s maid uniform. She was on the cusp of her teenage years and had the traditional look of her people, with blue, splotchy skin and a wide-eyed, vacant stare accompanying an even more vacant smile, but beneath the surface level, there were clear signs she was uncomfortable with her position. She kept fiddling with the apron of her dress and took any excuse not to look at the Lord if she could help it.

Lord Grovewick’s fascination with the people of the bogs was well known. He filled his staff with as many of the strange swamp dwellers as he could find and kept them close at hand. Word of his particular tastes eventually spread amongst Hollobell’s Drerlander population years ago, and most only ever sought out his manor for work as a last resort. The cruel irony was that, maligned as they were, Lord Grovewick was their best chance at finding a job. He was always looking for new staff. Girls, mostly, but he always kept several young boys around for good measure.

Zethras tried to never think about the role of these unfortunate souls in the manor nor the high turnover rate. His life would’ve only been that much harder had he forced himself to care, but enough screams echoed through the basement at night to test his indifference on more than one occasion.

Zethras had made his way a few feet from the throne when his Lord suddenly greeted his mage. “Zethras,” he called out in a deep voice layered with phlegm. “Good morning, my friend. How good of you to join us.” The chattering stopped, and everyone in the court’s attention suddenly turned to look upon Zethras, his skin crawling under their combined gazes. “Did that package of yours make its way to you?”

Zethras grit his teeth before ingratiating the nobleman with a bow. “It did indeed,” he confirmed and stood straight. “Thank you for your generosity, my Lord. Were it not for your esteemed patronage, I wouldn’t be able to further my ongoing studies of the arcane mysteries our most curious reality has to offer.”

One of the guests, a thin, nigh-skeletal merchant who looked as if he subsisted solely on air and the suffering of others, smirked and raised his voice. “Any progress on the mystery of why your talentless ass can’t cast any spells worth a shit?”

The court gave way to scattered laughter, even the little Drerlander girl who was laughing simply because everyone else was. While Zethras expected such treatment, it had him clenching his jaw regardless. Thankfully, Lord Grovewick was quick to quiet the lot of them.

“Now, now. That’s enough of that, friends. I personally believe that Zethras is chasing quite a noble pursuit.” He insisted although Zethras knew better than anyone else where this would lead. “We should be supportive of our dear court mage, who is apparently in such a hurry to further his skills so that he might one day be worth keeping around.”

The laughter resumed louder than before, and the fight to hold back a scowl proved difficult for Zethras. The day had only just begun, and already things were playing out the same way they always did. As a court mage, he showed up, solved various problems with his magic and alchemical skills, and provided arcane consultation on matters where his expertise was needed. In actuality, his role at Grovewick Manor was more akin to a well-paid punching bag.

“Why do you keep him around, my Lord?” Asked a knight wearing the traditional armor of House Grovewick- a set of full mail with an eyestalked helm. “For every problem he fixes, two more crop up.”

“That’s implying he even fixes any problems in the first place,” another added.

Zethras clutched at his staff as fear bloomed and consumed him. Keeping his job required that the Lord not question things such as these, and it was made worse when people began to murmur their agreement with the knight’s statement. He watched as Lord Grovewick poured over the question with his feeble mind, but as the moment dragged on, he appeared to grow visibly confused.

“Why, the reason for that is straightforward, my friends… that… ah… that would be…”

The crowd’s chattering died as everyone waited for the Lord to elaborate. Silence stretched on. After a while, he opened his mouth again and closed it a few times, trying to express either words he didn’t have or words he did but couldn’t parse. Most everyone in court was starting to worry for the man, wondering if he might be experiencing a sudden health issue that prevented him from speaking.

In any case, something wasn’t right, and it was the perfect moment for Zethras to jump in and take advantage of the situation to salvage it as best he could. He bent at the waist into a full bow, pulling out all the stops by spreading his arms to his sides. “If I may speak, my Lord?”

This snapped the noble slug from his stupor, Lord Grovewick responding with, “Y-Yes, by all means, friend.”

“Thank you. It’s no secret that my magical skills leave much to be desired. My command over the art is inconsistent at the best of times, and I would never argue otherwise. In spite of that, nay, because of it, my loyalty remains to this very court and to my Lord. Let it not be said that Lord Grovewick is anything but a generous man with a place at his side for even a humble disgrace like myself. As thanks for his kindness and the considerable compensation he provides me, I serve him to the best of my abilities…” Zethras swallowed his shame, adding in for good measure, “However lacking they may be.”

The court grew silent after his speech. Some of them turned their heads and talked amongst themselves, finding Zethras and his words strangely captivating. It wasn’t long until the silence was broken by Lord Grovewick, who laughed boisterously once released from his befuddlement.

“Ah, there it is! Now I remember exactly why I keep Zethras around. In all the realms known to man, I have never met another man who so thoroughly kisses ass with such reverent passion!” The laughter returned, now reaching a hysteric pitch. Pleased with his wit, the Lord grabbed his lap sitter by the hair and smiled a rotten smile. “You would do well to take some notes, my pet. You’ll need them soon enough.”

The girl tried her best to keep up her smile, but even the Drerlander look couldn’t hide how she winced. The court’s merriment took on an amused and lecherous tone, finding humor in their Lord and his wicked ways, whereas the other servants looked away. Pity shone in their bright eyes, pity and powerlessness.

The sudden shift in court made Zethras disassociate and feel far removed. He looked at the people in attendance, the ones openly mocking himself and the poor girl in Lord Grovewick’s lap. From the merchants to the knights, Zethras knew them each to be rotten to the core- personified evil wearing skin-suits that live empty lives of vapid pleasure and sadism. Even a recluse such as himself heard the whispers about the many guests who Lord Grovewick entertained.

The thin merchant, Donovan Gael, was a close friend of Grovewick’s who had a taste for boys in their youth and sampled many of the local flavors. Sir Garvey, a loyal retainer, was a creative fellow who’d made a hobby out of forging strange weapons and testing them out in stranger ways. Lords Humphrey and Humbert Kallemac were boyhood friends of Baldwin, noble twins who wasted their fortunes by hosting extravagant ‘parties’ that ended as bloodily as they did incestuously. Not to be left out on account of being one of the few female guests, Madame Morella ran one of Hollobell’s most infamous brothels, and while nothing had ever been proven, the disappearances of many popular girls over the years had long raised an inquisitive eye.

Each was nothing more than a fly buzzing around the putrid slug.

Zethras hated the lot of them and wished a painful death upon each of Lord Grovewick’s associates, but his thoughts soon shifted inwards. He felt it said a lot about him that he had no intention to leave despite how much he hated his job, his Lord, the manor, and its many guests.

This was as good as it would get for him. Zethras had tried just about everything after he was kicked from the Magicademy all those years ago, and being a court mage was an honor someone of his talent wouldn’t normally be afforded. There was also the gold it brought in, which was more than he’d ever earned. More than enough to grit his teeth and bark on command. Zethras had no illusions about it. His indifference made him little better than those he hated with a passion.

“All jokes aside, Zethras, my friend,” Lord Grovewick interrupted his thoughts, and he snapped back to attention. “I have need of you.”

“…Yes, my Lord. You need only say the word.” Zethras crossed the last few steps before himself and the bogwood throne, bowing his head and awaiting the day's first order.

“My leg hurts something fierce, and it requires treatment. Please, provide me your usual service.” Lord Grovewick grinned and gestured to his murkleg-riddled limb, the pustules seeming to throb and swell.

Zethras whipped his head upward to meet his gaze in a fit of horror. “What, here?” He blurted out.

“Yes. Why not?” The Lord laughed cruelly. “We have people doubting your usefulness, so why not show them just how helpful you can be?” He wiggled his gout-ridden toes as the mage, grimacing at the pain but inwardly smirking at what he asked of his loyal servant, knowing he couldn’t say no.

Everyone watched intently. Some knew what would happen. Others didn’t but knew it would be something they didn’t want to miss. With all eyes on him, Zethras felt rising shame. There wasn’t any getting out of this, so he begrudgingly took a potion vial from his robes and knelt before his Lord. His eyes were locked on the floor, desperately avoiding the murkleg lumps.

Zethras was not a healer and couldn’t use a lick of white magic, nor was he a seasoned alchemist. Treating Lord Grovewick’s illness was one of his primary duties, and the only thing he had to go off of were the notes and recipes of his predecessor. Thankfully, he wasn’t so inept that he couldn’t duplicate the alchemical success of others, and although his own toiling was an uphill battle, Zethras didn’t dislike getting to experiment in an attempt to cure or at least treat murkleg.

Deep down, Zethras wondered if Lord Grovewick even wanted to be cured. The man lived to put others down, and forcing Zethras to attend to his leg to keep his job seemed to make the pain somewhat worth it. The wicked smile on his face implied so, anyway. It was wider than usual, no doubt because he’d never forced his mage to perform this act publicly.

The potion was at its maximum effectiveness when rubbed into the skin like a lotion, so Zethras emptied the bottle all over the Lord’s leg and knelt in front of him. He hesitated to do anything past that. Already the smell was getting to him, and he hadn’t even touched the skin yet.

“Is something wrong, Zethras?”

“N-No, my Lord… nothing of the sort…” Zethras forced himself to say as his hands extended outward.

“Wonderful. Nothing would displease me more than to discover that your dramatic pledge of fealty was nothing but empty platitudes…”

Barely able to keep his composure, Zethras nearly gagged as he grasped his Lord’s leg and began to massage the potion into the affected areas. He rubbed it into each glowing pustule, imagining being somewhere else and thinking of his studies. Lord Grovewick let out a groan that sounded a little too relieved for Zethras’s liking, and the girl in his lap looked away, frightened by the noise. Before she did, though, he noticed the look of solidarity in her wide eyes. The girl knew full well this was something that someone of her standing should be doing, and that was the entire point of making Zethras do so.

Thank the gods, the treatment didn’t last long, and the oil rubbed in fairly quickly. Zethras had soon massaged every last murkleg growth, and the medicine caused the degree to which they glowed to somewhat dull. Lord Grovewick was visibly relieved, but rather than straightforwardly thanking his court mage, he saw fit to extend his cruel games even further.

“Do you see now, my friends? Zethras may be unable to look into the future and provide me with wise counsel or cast curses upon my enemies, but he is diligent in his duties and knows how to treat many health problems or brew up basic cures for what ails you. On that note, he’d be more than happy to assist with any of your troubles, wouldn’t you, Zethras?”

Zethras briefly looked at the court behind him, now unable to mask his shame and humiliation. His day had only just begun, and already he felt defeated. It wasn’t long until the guests started proposing ideas and joining Lord Grovewick’s little game.

“There’s this abscess on my ass,” Madame Morella snickered. “How bout you come on over and lance it?”

“Both of us have been itching up a storm down there,” One of the Kallemac twins insisted. “I think a thorough inspection is in order, wouldn’t you say so, brother dearest?”

“I would indeed say so, brother dearest. You always have the finest ideas. What would I do without you?”

“Get in line, freaks!” Donovan Gael laughed. “You think you’ve got it bad? Check out what I need taken care of-”

Zethras didn’t register whatever ungodly sight the sadistic merchant whipped out. He’d mentally checked out, his jaw clenching tighter and tighter with every crass suggestion. He could feel and hear his teeth creaking, and for a moment, he was certain they would crack. Only the voice of his Lord snapped him out of his trance.

“Look at that, Zethras, my friend. I think people are really starting to come around to you. Seems like you’ve a busy day ahead. Think you can hack it?”

Zethras turned to face Lord Grovewick, his disassociation ending as all the suppressed hatred he felt for the foul man and his court of dunces bubbled at the forefront of his mind. Three years of this treatment with no end in sight. He had to ask himself a simple question- was the gold and the stability his job offered him really worth it at the end of the day?

“I live to serve, my Lord,” Zethras grinned, hiding his true thoughts beneath the surface.

He’d often thought about it in the past, the idea tantalizing him like nothing had ever done before, but never had the urge been so solidified and potent as it was at that moment. This wasn’t worth it.

None of it was. But Zethras wasn’t content to just pack up his things and leave, no. He would never be satisfied until the man who looked down on him with that cruel grin was dead by his own hands- him and every other thug in this wicked court.=