Castle [Exemplary]

[King Ghidorah]

"What," I ask, convinced that I must be mistaken about what I believe I've just heard, " Did you say to me?"


"I'm certain I expressed myself quite clearly," replies Chatterly, infuriatingly composed. Everything about him irritates me: from his black shirt fastened with stupid little gold hooks to his shiny black leather gloves, to his gray, slicked back hair and his pointed chin. "His Grace the Duke has barred you from entering the grounds of Harnburg Castle." 

We're sitting in the back room of a tavern in the town of Harnburg, a velvet-curtained wooden box with hardwood tables and leather chairs not one hundred meters from the outer walls of the edifice in question. The air reeks of the scented smoke from the oil-lamp on the wall, filthy woodwork and subtle poison. The lamp's flickering yellow flame sets radiant reflections rippling across my scales like liquid gold as I surge to my feet, knocking my chair to the ground. I'm literally trembling, my gleaming hands shaking as I lean forward, gripping the edge of the table so hard that the wood buckles and cracks beneath my clawed fingers.

That anyone would dare...!  

My first impulse is to kill Chatterly, and I very nearly act on it. Golden lightning sparks in my throat and races across my horns, buzzing against my scalp and setting my hair on-end. A writhing orange corona of cosmic power wreathes my forearms, and the corners of the table snap off and turn to ash in my hands, adding a puff of wood-smoke to the olfactory landscape. 

The only thing that stops me from tearing the Duke's agent apart is the cloying suspicion that that's exactly what the man is expecting me to try to do. I know he's been plotting against me; I know he knows what I am! He wouldn't deliver news like this without some manner of safety-net in place, and after my experience with Mothra I'm loathe to dismiss his potential as a threat.

If he showed even a hint of nervousness I'd probably slaughter him regardless, but he hasn't moved from his seat. Chatterly just sits there, watching me with what appears to be only mild interest!  

"What," I rumble, "Makes any of you think you can decide where I do and do not go? I'm not one of your pathetic human thugs, Chatterly! If I desire entry to Harnburg Castle, who is going to stop me? Cutter? Violent Angus? You?"

He just smiles. I grab the damaged table and flip it sidelong, the strength of my peerless golden arm sending it sailing through the curtains of our private booth, tearing them off their mounting as it bangs and bounces down the hall outside and into the tavern proper. There's a brief commotion of shouts, screams, and the sound of breaking furniture, followed by hushed conversation and a lot of groaning. Nobody seems eager to investigate. 

"You've also been invited to a formal party," Chatterly says, ignoring my question - and my outburst - completely. 

I stare at him in puzzled suspicion, the violent momentum of my enraged thoughts abruptly arrested by this sudden nonsense. The tides of power rolling across my body ebb and fizzle.

"... explain."  

He crosses his legs, folding his hands in his lap. His topmost boot begins to bob idly up and down as he leans back in his chair. "It's simple, my friend. Although the Duke has banned you from the castle - an edict which is, in fact, enforceable - that doesn't mean he wishes to terminate your employment. Far from it - a Gala is to be held in your honor at his Grace's country house."

I try to reconcile this information, outrage at the Duke's blasphemous presumption still pinwheeling across my thoughts. I can feel my hideous hominid countenance contort with the effort.  

"You were exiled from the castle for killing servants," Chatterly provides. "As I've told you previously, his Grace the Duke is not a fool; Even in the absence of evidence, your culpability was obvious. However your service to Harnburg has, in other respects, been exemplary. The next phase of our operations will bring you into a far more active role, and the Duke desires that your formal introduction to representatives of the other outerlying duchies should happen before then."

His tone is almost jovial.   

I turn the idea over in my mind. A gala. It's such a strange, bright little word, and such a bizarre concept: yet another aspect of mammalian social posturing. Humans insist on making elegant little games out of superiority and dominance, simple ideas which can be utterly mastered through overt displays of strength. 

... or so I thought. On Chatterly, it's rarely worked the way its supposed to, and I'm beginning to understand that the threat of strength concealed can be just as potent; That simple insight explains a lot about how these people behave.

[King Ghidorah]

Even so, I am not willing to simply go along with this insipid farce. 


"You should hope you have something with which to mitigate this outrage besides an insolent invitation and a cryptic threat, Chatterly. Just because I've been willing to kill for him doesn't mean I recognize your Duke's authority over me, and I refuse to be held in such contempt!" 

I raise my hands and glower thunderously, making fists in order to better illustrate my point, reveling in their implied promise; Horrified as I once was by my fingers, my list of reasons to appreciate them continues to grow. 

Chatterly rests his elbows on the burgundy arms of his chair and steeples his fingers in front of his chest. The lamplight flickers off his oily grey hair. "It's not contempt, dear fellow. The Duke is holding you to a standard: An agreement was made, you broke it, and so there are consequences; I assure you, for literally anyone else they would be far more severe." 

I gaze into his slate-grey eyes, watching my own golden reflection shining in his pupils, and point my hand at the naked doorway with the sincere intention of sending a blast of cosmic lightning blazing out into the hall. 

Chatterly is faster. Before I can entirely parse what's happened the agent has risen from his chair and driven me face-first into a corner with one arm twisted viciously behind my back. Pain flares inside my shoulder as bone grinds against bone. The sheer speed of it is so stunning that I'm completely unable to resist. 

"There is, however, a limit to the Duke's indulgence. And, for that matter, to mine. You will not kill any more of his Grace's subjects."

He's extremely strong, for a human - at least as strong as Mothra, which comes as a rude shock - but even so I can't help but smile. His body is pressed closely against mine, one hand locking my arm in place, the other holding what I have to guess is a woefully inadequate knife against the scales of my back. At this range, it doesn't matter how fast he is - with the difference in our heights, his face must be mere inches from my hand.  

I've wanted to do this for weeks. 

Astral charge explodes from the palm of my painfully torqued appendage, lighting the room in shades of gold. I can feel the flare of heat as the lightning connects with his body, hear the crackle and smell the savory tang of burning flesh. The pressure on my shoulder disappears; There's a loud smack followed swiftly by a heavy, complicated wooden thump: presumably the sounds of Chatterly's burning body impacting his recently-vacated chair, knocking it to the ground.  

I turn away from the wall, laughter already rising in my throat, preparing to rip my hated enemy limb from limb - and am shocked and dismayed by what I find. 

Chatterly is alive, for one thing. Burned, yes, down on one knee behind his toppled chair, yes, but far less dead than I'd expected. His shirt has been blasted to ashes, revealing a ruined leather breastplate and a strange metal charm, hanging on a silver chain around his neck. The latter is glowing red-hot, and the former has a scorched, jagged hole in it the size of my fist, exposing a bright red patch of blistered flesh over his heart. He has a long, wickedly curved dagger in each hand.  The serrated blades possess a faint corona, a hint of moonlight-silver largely obscured by the orange glow of the oil-lamp on the wall.

Almost as astonishing as his survival is the fact that several of the patrons from the tavern's tap-room, wealthy merchants, shopkeeps and travelers, are now arrayed in the hallway outside our private booth. All of them are wearing similar expressions of professional attentiveness, watching me with their hands folded  in front of their belts.

None of them are armed. Confusingly, I find that concerning.

Chatterly stands, adopting a strangely relaxed stance I've never seen before, with one knife held near his chin and the other in a reverse-grip in front of his abdomen. 

"We could," he says, adopting an infuriatingly conversational inflection, "continue this if you like. However, I expect the outcome would be dreadfully disappointing for both of us. I came here prepared for this fight, King Ghidorah, whatever form it might take - but I'd rather offer incentives. As always, there will be rewards for your co-operation."     

For the first time in my eons-long existence, I regret being right about something; Chatterly's jibe about form is not lost on me.

 I stare at him, trying to figure out why he still has a face. It's true that my golden lightning can be unpredictable, arcing wildly off-course, but he was right there. I could feel his breath on my scales! 

"What sort of... incentives," I hiss, once again shaking with rage. I can feel an opportunity slipping away, fueling the growing certainty that I'm not going to kill the despised spymaster today after all.  Here and now, pursuing this conflict might be unwise: if there's one thing I've learned in this accursed valley it's that unless I am certain my power is overwhelmingly superior I must tread carefully.

Chatterly smiles, but doesn't lower his knives. The floorboards creak beneath his shiny black boots as he shifts his weight. 

"If you go to the upcoming gala, and you restrain yourself from killing or maiming anybody - including the servants - you will have the opportunity not only to familiarize yourself will all sorts of new, interesting people, but to meet the Lady Isolda. I seem to recall you displayed a marked curiosity where she was concerned, and I have it on good authority that she is planning to attend."

[King Ghidorah]

The tiny scales upon my brow wrinkle in confusion.

"You said you wanted me to stay away from Isolda," I growl, immediately suspicious. I jab a glinting finger accusingly in Chatterly's direction. "You've categorically refused to so much as discuss her habits. Why would you offer me this now? What has changed?"

Seeing that he's piqued my curiosity Chatterly finally sheathes his weapons, making them disappear behind his back. It occurs to me suddenly that this is the first time I've ever seen his bare arms: shorn of their loose-fitting sleeves save for burnt rings of fabric dangling from his wrists, they're nearly as immaculately sculpted as mine.

"The Lady's preferences," he says. A look of annoyance ripples across his countenance. "Isolda has chosen to become involved in these matters, and as unwise as I believe that decision to be I'm not going to waste an opportunity when its presented to me."

I'm not sure exactly what he means by that, but the longer I have to digest what he's offered the more difficult I'm finding it to maintain my bad mood, though the disappointment of the agent's survival still lingers. 

Isolda. Excepting Chatterly himself, and his network of spies, the Duke's niece represents the last great mystery remaining in Harnburg Valley; It would be foolish to pass up this chance to finally confront her. Besides: I've never been to a party before. Attending this event can only deepen my understanding of this place and its people.

"Alright then. I'll go to your inane celebration. But don't think for a moment that I've accepted this ridiculous proclamation of exile."  

Chatterly sighs, beginning to cross his arms over his blistered chest, but thinks better of it as the motion makes him wince. He opts instead to right his toppled armchair and return to his seat. Once he's ensconced comfortably within the overstuffed leather he says, "You're really going to make me explain, aren't you? Very well: It's true that if you tried in earnest to return to the castle grounds, the guards would not be able to stop you. You would likely succeed - but it would be the end of your relationship with Harnburg. You would be treated as an invading enemy; the Duke would flee the castle, all our forces would be turned against you, and Mothra would be called."

My shock must show on my face, because his smile turns grim. "Yes, lines of communication with your nemesis  do exist; I imagine she'd put in an appearance at the first opportunity. If that's a scenario you wish to explore, then by all means, return to the castle. Force your way in." 

The spymaster sits up ramrod straight and stares directly into my eyes. The oil-lamp gutters for a moment, sending shadows flickering across his angular face. "Flip that coin," he taunts, slowly enunciating every word.  

With him seated and myself standing, I exceed Chatterly's height more than twice over, but for just a moment I feel as though I'm faced with an insurmountable barrier. My gaze flickers to the strangers in the hall, still watching us intently, then back to my despised 'handler'.

There's no question: I've been drastically outmaneuvered. My enemies know that my power is lacking, and its robbed me of the latitude to act.

I clench my fists and seethe. This state of affairs is disgusting; it's practically a parody! These bacteria hold power over me!

Unable to contain myself, I scream, wheeling about in a sudden rage, and kick the wall as hard as I can. Cosmic energy flares; The woodwork splinters, and the stone behind it explodes. A gust of cool night-time air wafts through our private booth as a crater the size of my torso appears in the wall amidst the crack and clatter of settling debris. 

Feeling trapped, breathing in great heaving rasps, I turn once more to face my enemies. I note the fact that the mysterious observers are in the process of tucking unknown items back into the folds of their clothing, which only increases my agitation. 

"I. Am leaving," I tell them through gritted teeth, carefully avoiding Chatterly's gaze. 

"Capital," he says. "I suppose that is rather enough for one night. I'll contact you with further details tomorrow. If this event is to go well, you're going to need to be prepared."

I stalk out of the room without saying another word, ignoring the stares and murmurs of the tavern's patrons as I flee into the night.

[King Ghidorah]

*      *      *

With exceptions at the Duke's discretion - on the initial occasion of my arrival, for instance - curfew in the town of Harnburg doesn't begin until well after sundown. As I stalk the torchlit cobblestone streets in an impotent rage, scales shining with crimson-gold firelight and reflected shadows, the evening crowds of shoppers, servants and tavern-goers have already begun to thin. Those who remain give way before me, ducking into alleyways and crossing streets to avoid my path. My entire body is buzzing with the need to destroy, flavoring the world with a hideous too-bright clarity;  I can only imagine the look on my face.

Of course, I've always wanted to destroy these people. I'd even begun to grow accustomed to exercising restraint - but it's different now. Not incinerating Harnburg's citizens because the time was not yet ripe was one thing - but now that I've been threatened with consequences that matter, now that the hand of another explicitly holds me back from doing a thing I wished to do?

It's painfully obvious how the penalty for invading the castle might be leveled upon me for other transgressions, and the looming specter of it is maddening. It's unbearable! Is this, then, what its like to be beholden to things like 'rules' and 'laws'?  

Appalling. Utterly appalling.

If only I had more power! I can feel it roiling inside me, the vast sea of cosmic energy that shines within my very core. Though far less restricted than it was when I first arrived in Omni's vile playground its tributaries remain kinked and knotted, stifling the flow of astral charge, locking away the deeper wells of strength which would allow me to assume my purest titanic form. 

With no destination in mind, I wander for hours, thinking on these things and seething. The moon comes out, lending a silver highlight to the shadows of the town. The air grows cooler and the smells of the night set in in earnest, the aromas of the lake over-riding the scents of civic life. Curfew comes and goes, but the Duke's municipal guard, every one of whom I've long since interviewed with excruciating thoroughness, have enough sense to leave me alone. Eventually, I find myself rounding the corner of the very same street upon which my enraged march began. 

There are men standing on the cobbles outside the tavern where I met with Chatterly - three of them, wearing cloaks and hoods in a familiar style, huddled together and speaking in hushed tones. One of them is even bigger than me, and has a face so hideous I can recognize it even beneath a cowl and from half-way down the street: the spymaster's thug, Cutter.  

I duck back around the corner, shocked from my wrathful malaise by this unexpected development. What are they doing? Why are they here? It likely has something to do with the damage I did to the tavern earlier in the evening, but I can't imagine what. 

A vicious smile begins to creep across my lips. This could be an invaluable opportunity. 

I steal a furtive glance back around the corner in order to be certain the little group is still there, and then I turn and face the wall of the building around whose periphery I'm skulking; It's the office of the tax collector, a half-timbered two-story affair with bars on the windows and a shingled roof. 

It will do. I take several steps back and flex my legs, feeling my ridiculous linen trousers stretch and strain against the peerless muscles of my thighs - and then I jump. 

Although this humanoid body lacks my higher form's lordly stature and golden wings, I've yet to discover a height to which it can't leap; two stories is trivial (I say it aloud - 'Trivial' - a velvet-tongued word with notes of dismissal and disdain bred in its fabric). There's a brief rush of heavy midnight air against my face, the arcing thrill of free-fall, and then I land heavily on the tax-collector's roof - practically on top of a very surprised little man with dark paint on his face and mottled velvet clothes.    

I recoil, nearly losing my footing on the sloped shingles amidst a moment of shocked confusion. The stranger, meanwhile pivots on his heel and takes off across the rooftops with astonishing speed. I instantly hate him for it; Once I've regained my balance I follow, pounding across shadowy shingles, thatch and tiles with equal abandon. My flawless body glows electrum in the moonlight. Whoever my unexpected quarry is, they were either watching me or they were watching Chatterly's men; either way, I want to know their secrets.  

The footing is treacherous, and my prey is faster than I am, but I have two distinct advantages: I don't have to worry about hurting myself if I fall, and we're running out of rooftops.  Harnburg's  avenues are wide, and while I could certainly make the jump to the next row of buildings I doubt the man I'm chasing is so athletically gifted.   

I turn out to be wrong about that. 

It doesn't quite look real; With barely a hitch in his step he bunches his legs under him and sails out across the torch-lit void, rolling to his feet on the flattened stone roof of the silversmith across the road and clambering up the red granite facade of the adjoining inn's third story.

A growl rises deep in my throat. I draw upon my astral wellspring and golden lightning crackles across my body; I surge ahead in a sudden burst of speed, estimate the angle as best I can and leap, streaking across the sky trailing bright orange sparks;  Unfortunately, I've put too much power into my long-distance pounce. Instead of intercepting the stranger I find myself arcing above him, towards the darkened waters of the lake.

I twist and flail in the still night air, desperately trying to alter my trajectory. On a rooftop far below my prey watches as I soar helplessly towards the water. I reach out a hand, straining as I plunge from the sky; I could blast him, but from this distance I'd almost certainly miss. I howl in frustration...

...And to my enduring surprise, I change direction! It had never occurred to me to try it before while wearing a form without wings,  but I recognize this feeling. Even in this warped and diminished body, my nature continues to find ways to shine through; I'm flying!

The stranger is at least as surprised as I am. Whether he's confused by the moonlight glinting off both the water and my scales or if he just doesn't understand what he's seeing I don't know, but either way he freezes, rooted to the spot on the roof of the inn.

By the time he turns to flee, its already too late. Descending like a golden meteor in horrible trousers, I tackle him viciously onto the tiles.

[King Ghidorah]

To my dismay, I have to wait for nearly an hour before the willowy, face-painted lurker wakes up. In retrospect, driving him head-first onto the flat stone roof may not have been the best first step to learning his secrets. It's only after what seems like an eternity of pacing beneath the stars, feeling cold slate beneath my feet and wondering if I should perhaps just take this fool and dunk him in the lake until the bubbles stop that my patience is finally rewarded.   

"UUuuuuurrrr..."

He rolls onto his side and immediately throws up. I watch with mild interest as the result pools on the tiles, and then I crouch down and grasp the man by his velvet collar with both scaly hands. I pull his face close to enough to mine that I can see my own half-human reflection in his pupils. His eyes are unfocused, the whites standing out comically against his grease-blackened skin, but they both point in the same direction, and he's holding his head up on his own. I'm not an expert on head injuries in apes - though I will be eventually if everything goes well, by sheer volume of experience if nothing else; Still, he seems lucid enough.

I say, "Hello." 

My captive blinks hard, squinting and grimacing, kneeling like a supplicant before me, and then recognition and terror flash in tandem together across his face. He yelps and attempts to pull away from my grip, but the sudden motion nearly makes him swoon.

"Tell me about yourself," I command. 

The prowler frowns, visibly gathering his wits, but doesn't say anything. 

"What were you doing on the roof of the tax collector's office? Were you spying on me?" 

Blood begins to leak from behind one of his eyes, but he says nothing.

"If you don't respond, I'm going to tear you in half. Specifically, I'm going to grab you by your collarbone and your pelvis, and pull in opposite directions until you come apart in the middle. It will be exquisite." 

I pause for a moment, allowing him the time to understand that I'm serious. I've found that humans sometimes doubt my intention if I don't give them the opportunity to study my face. Fortunately, judging by the way his expression closes up, this one doesn't seem to share that particular challenge; He already knows who I am. 

My prey remains silent, so I continue: "I can tell  that you know this is something I can do. Now - tell me who you are. "

He doesn't say anything. 

I clamp one hand over his mouth, pull him closer, and bite off his ear. 

The task is difficult with a flat, muzzle-less face, but this body's jaws are surprisingly strong. When I'm certain he's done trying to scream, I spit out the the rubbery lump and remove my silencing hand from his mouth. Things go much more smoothly after that. 
     
The stranger's first name is Heath; He can't currently remember  his surname, the realization of which sends him near to panic, and makes him increasingly talkative. Heath works for Chatterly, and apparently he's one of several men who've been tasked with watching me. They've been following unseen whenever I'm in public since shortly after I first came to the castle, only rarely leaving me unobserved, and reporting on my behavior.

"We know all about you," he says, sitting on the tiles and clutching the bleeding hole on the side of what I can only assume is a horribly aching head. His dark hair pokes out between the fingers of his glove, the individual strands remarkably clear by the glow of the moon and stars. "Your temper; Your curiosity; The awful things you do when you're alone.... We've gotten pretty good at anticipating how you react: We thought you'd confront Cutter's group directly, not try to stalk them! You weren't supposed to find me!" 

The look on his face is getting a little bit vacant now, and his bleeding eye is beginning to drift out of alignment. Something inside of Heath's head is damaged, and its getting worse the longer it goes untreated. I can't help but smile; It's like watching a burning  building collapse with all the people still inside. 

"Why," I ask him, "Did you want me to talk to Cutter?"

Heath doesn't answer. I grab him again by the soft, mottled fabric of his collar, fully prepared to threaten and cajole, but his eyes are pointing in completely different directions. His hand slides limply off the side of his head, and he begins to make a keening noise, like a rusted axle. Ten seconds later, without any further help from me he shudders violently, gives a rattling sigh, and expires.

[King Ghidorah]

I fly Heath's body out to the cliff-face on the far-side of the lake and wedge it in a crevice half-way up the rock-face, concealed among the crimson stones. After that, it's a breathless flight through a cold and twinkling velvet sky. My golden hair flaps in the breeze as I rush back to the lane outside the tavern, eager to subject Chatterly's minions to my freshly-critical perspective. 

There's nobody there. The post-midnight streets are deserted; Cutter and his companions have all returned to wherever it is they go when they're not offending my sensibilities. I stand on the cobblestones and seethe, digesting what I've learned and riding a tide of furious insight.

I'm not just being coerced; I'm not just being watched; As offensive as the idea might be (and it's dismaying to think how much easier it is credit than it would have been a month ago) it seems that I'm being manipulated, choreographed, prompted! 'We've gotten pretty good at predicting how you'll react...'

At some point, my pretense of allowing these people to use me became a reality. 

I grit my serrated teeth, my pride finally bending past its limit. My head feels too tight. Orange sparks of cosmic energy crackle across my torch-lit golden body. I clench my fists, looking up at the too-bright stars, a mocking facsimile of the cosmos I once ruled, and a bold decision casts its cold, brilliant shadow across my brain:

I'll go to the Duke's party. I'll stomach Chatterly's preparations, whatever they might entail, however humiliating they might be. Over the next two weeks, I will let them all believe that I've been cowed, that I am entirely their creature - but that will be the end of it. This experiment is over; Damn Chatterly and his secrets, damn the Duke and his mysterious niece, damn Mothra, and damn this valley. In my efforts to understand this place, its nuance and deep aesthetic value, I've allowed myself to become ensnared by it. 

No more!

This Gala will indeed serve to announce my presence to the Outerlying Duchies, but not in the way William Conrad van Harnburg expects. At long last I'll kill him - and I'll do it in front of all of his guests. Whatever contingencies Chatterly has planned, whatever consequences my actions might invite, I'll deal with them as they come. With any luck, I may recover enough power between now and then to render his preparations moot, and burn the entire duchy down around him. 

I'll even fight Mothra if she deigns to appear, whether I recover my powers or not. If it's necessary for me to flee before her superior size and strength then so be it; At least she's a god! I refuse to be made a slave by mere men. Anything, even banishment, is preferable.

I smile savagely. For the first time since my ignoble defeat, I feel like myself again.

[King Ghidorah]

*     *     *

The next morning finds me atop the red granite cliffs, hovering above the river where the rapids meet the edge and thunder down into the void. The spray tickles the soles of my feet, wetting the hems of my sack-cloth trousers. As the sun peeks furtively above the trees at the valley's far-off eastern end, casting its ruddy rays almost cautiously across the land, the water seems to ignite: It flashes scarlet and gold, flickering rubies and diamonds as it plunges over the precipice - a deluge of fleeting, illusory treasures.

I shine brighter; the glow of Camelot's counterfeit star reflects more perfectly off my lustrous metallic scales than it does form the rushing waves. I can see my reflection in the lake far below, a second sunrise perched atop the western rock-face, as though the effervescent waterfall were a wellspring of liquid light and I its very source.

All of Harnburg valley is visible from this vantage, and I'm deeply appreciating the view; it reminds me of the perspective I hope to enjoy when I recast this bucolic vista as a portrait of utter ruin, and beneath the red rays of dawn I can almost imagine its all already burning. It helps to keep me calm as I contemplate the uncertain conclusion of this fascinating, excruciating chapter in my strange new existence. There is however, another reason I'm up here, in a spot that's extremely noisy, highly visible, and nearly totally inaccessible: It's extremely inconvenient for anyone who might want to talk to me.    

By the time Chatterly manages to bother me, the sun's been up for hours, and I've taken to introspectively prodding at the ethereal kinks within my astral wellspring. I've managed to achieve a sensation reminiscent of having a tiny piece of flesh stuck in my teeth, and unable to be dislodged no matter how vigorously I might wiggle my tongue; Attempting to work past it is making cosmic energy spit and ripple across my arms and chest.

With the roar of the water so close at hand, and my back to the grassy plateau atop the cliff, I don't even notice that the Duke's agent has approached until he shoots me. It doesn't hurt - the quarrel shatters against my scales - but when I wheel about in mid-air only see him standing by the river's edge in his fine clothes and traveling cloak, calmly tucking a crossbow away beneath the latter, I have to forcefully remind myself that the horrible man will have thoroughly planned this encounter.  

I make a half-hearted attempt at killing him anyway. However as I anticipated, Chatterly is prepared: I spit a crackling orange bolt of power, but it's intercepted within a meter of the spymaster's chest by a previously-invisible hemispherical barrier, outlined brilliantly by the astral corona of my attack. The lightning's potency dissipates across the immaterial shield  as curved tongues of citrine fire, allowing only the smallest portion of my power to pass through. Chatterly's shirt is barely singed, trailing only  wisps of smoke. The man doesn't even flinch.

He waits until I've alighted upon the clifftop before he speaks to me, pulling back the cowl of his cloak the better to talk face-to-face. I catch a glimpse of the amulet he was wearing last night, just the chain peeking out from beneath his collar. 

"Hello to you as well, King Ghidorah," he says, shouting to be heard above the thunder of the nearby falls. "We have a lot of work to do, so I hope that you've gotten that out of your system."

I approach, new-grown grasses whispering around my ankles until I'm standing directly in front of the spymaster, forcing him to look up in order to meet my eyes. "Just so long as we understand each other," I growl.

"I think that we do," Chatterly says, clasping his hands behind his back and giving me a very calculated sort of smile. "You want to kill me, but you won't, because you're not certain you can, or what will happen if you succeed. I want you to attend the Duke's gala without killing anyone or starting any unwanted wars. You want to go to the Duke's Gala and meet the Lady Isolda - and after that, we both agree that you should rampage as much as your blackened heart desires, the only point of contention being when, and at whose expense."

I glower at him and clench my fists. He's mostly right. "Why are you here, Chatterly?"

"Details," he says, " remember? If you're to attend this party, you're going to need to learn some new skills: How to eat with a fork; How to wear shoes; How to talk to pig-headed, self-important  noblemen without ripping their heads from their shoulders. In short, a crash-course in etiquette."

A cloud passes over the sun, stealing some of the luster from the spymasters oily hair. A furtive wind creeps past, carrying a scent of water and old ashes. I stare at Chatterly, incredulous; I'm familiar with the concept of etiquette (a stuttering, inconstant little word) but while I certainly demand respect  my recent  unprecedented restraint of my aesthetic yen to destroy represents a revolution in politeness on my own part that I doubt I'll be able to top. The fact that I've allowed so many human beings to leave my august presence alive and with their mental equilibrium intact has already been a mind-boggling display of magnanimous courtesy.

"You want me to learn and follow all the pointless social rituals you use to elevate the weak," I venture, no longer certain that I'll be able to feign compliance, "Is that it?" 

Chatterly shakes his head. The sunlight returns. "Hardly. I don't expect the impossible. The fact that you're a Prime, and that you claim a royal title should combine well enough with your remarkable stature to allow you a great deal of latitude as far as such minutiae are concerned. No, dear fellow: leaving aside the strategic background, and the subtle intrigues, and the million other things with which you should be familiar before you set foot at a party like this one, I'll settle for teaching you to behave as though you have, at some point, had to conduct yourself like a man."       

     

[King Ghidorah]

I very nearly attack him in earnest, but I manage to compose myself, fuming silently. I am not a man; Although my hominid form bears them some resemblance, I will never be so insignificant.

My self-control is bolstered somewhat by the fact that I've already allowed the people of Harnburg a certain amount of misapprehension regarding my nature - and helped further by the realization that being able to pass more convincingly as a lesser creature might prove useful in the future. Most of all though, it's the knowledge that I can shortly look forward to correcting any and all false impressions which buoys my restraint.

"Very well," I say.  "But I wonder what exactly you're proposing I should learn; I've already mastered the ability to exist in a room containing a crowd of deluded, fragile humans without slaughtering them all. If you don't want me to cater to their meaningless egos as well, then what else could you  possibly require?"  

Chatterly's face dips into a shallow, thin-lipped frown. "The slightest inkling of manners," he says, turning abruptly. "Come. I've prepared a venue." 

I expect him to lead me back into town, but instead we follow the cliff's edge. We bypass the path to the bottom and continue around to the Northern lip of the valley, where the sheer red rock-face gives way to smaller crimson ledges scattered amid steep grassy slopes. The spymaster guides me down the side of the valley to one of the lesser stony outcroppings which upon upon closer examination turns out to hide a cave; its entrance is concealed by a wooden door painted to match the surrounding rock.

"What is this, Chatterly?" I ask, eagerness creeping into my voice at the prospect of learning another of the man's secrets. "Where have you brought me?"   

Chatterly unlocks the door, releasing a gust of moist air, and ushers me inside; within we find a stone tunnel buttressed with timber, and lit by lanterns mounted on iron sconces. Their hazy golden light reflects off my lustrous body, casting a rippling aurora across the walls. 

"Someplace where you can't kill any bystanders or destroy Harnburg Castle-town if you grow frustrated with your 'education'," he says. His boots whisper across the damp stone floor as he leads the way forward. "It's one of several bolt-holes I have concealed around the valley in case of disaster. I absolutely refuse to tell you where the others are, in case you were wondering."

I was, of course, but I don't give him the satisfaction of hearing me say so. We follow the passage deeper into the hillside until it gradually widens out into a little cave; the space is no larger than my room at the castle, lit by the sapphire glow of a small, luminescent pool of water which laps against the far wall. There's a a plain wooden table and several matching chairs in the middle of the floor, and a stack of large, ironbound wooden crates in one corner. The air smells of wet rocks and lichen.

I immediately notice that we aren't the only people present: Cutter and his lesser counterpart, Violent Angus are seated on opposite sides of the table, dressed in matching leather armor over dark clothing. The two enforcers are playing with their knives in much the same way they did when we first encountered each-other all those months ago.

"I believe you already know Cutter and Violent Angus," says Chatterly, the light of the pool glinting off his eyes and casting webs of luminescence across his angular features. He opens his mouth to continue, but I'm not paying attention to him anymore. 

"Hello Cutter," I growl, flexing my clawed fingers as I stalk towards him. "It seems we missed each other last night. I heard you had something you wanted to tell me." 

A look of confusion passes across the sturdy thug's caved-in  face. He looks from me to his master and back again, fumbling his knife and nearly stumbling in his rush to get out of his chair, scraping its legs across the floor of the cave.

" 'ere, Mister Chatterly, what's 'e talkin' about? I thought we wasn't doin' that part anymore."
   
His bafflement seems so genuine that it almost makes me pause. Almost - but not quite. "What part would that be Cutter? It sounds like you expected something different. I'd hate to think that I've gotten predictable." 

Astral charge crackles across my fingertips, adding its jagged golden-orange glow to the caves placid blue ambiance - and then a crossbow quarrel shatters against my back. For a moment, nobody moves. I turn around slowly to cast a withering look at Chatterly. "Do that again," I say, hissing through gritted teeth. "See what happens."   

Chatterly smiles without a trace of mirth and slinks up beside me, setting his crossbow on the table between myself and his minions with a decisive clack. "We have more urgent matters to attend to, Ghidorah. Cutter and Violent Angus are here to assist in preparing you for the Gala. As to whatever appointments with these gentleman you might have previously had - you'd do best to put them out of your mind."  

I study the three men for a long moment: Chatterly observing me in turn, revealing nothing; Cutter backed up against the wall; Violent Angus with his knife in one hand and the other flat against the table, watching to see what I'll do. 

My teeth grind audibly as my eyes flicker between my handler and his henchmen, a stuttering clatter echoing in the dark.

The spymaster breaks the stalemate with an indulgent sigh. "Cutter," he says, "Was supposed to calm you down last night. Following our heated exchange, I arranged a distraction in order to help keep a lid on your temper. It did not, however, turn out to be necessary. I assume that Mr. Cartwright is dead?"

I stare at him blankly, without the faintest idea who he might mean. A look of genuine surprise races across his face and vanishes behind a mask of amused tolerance.

 It's not until he's already begun to speak again that I realize he must have been talking about Heath. 

"In any case," Chatterly says, dismissing the topic with a perfunctory clap of his leather-gloved hands, "It's past time that we began. We have a fair amount of material to cover, and I expect we're going to have to go through it several times, so if everyone is done posturing I'd prefer that we start immediately."

[King Ghidorah]

We remain in Chatterly's underground haven for the rest of the afternoon and into the night, engaged in intriguing diplomatic briefings and contemptible instructional pantomimes. The spymaster and his cronies spend hours familiarizing me with the social and political background of the duchies and city-states whose representatives will be present at the gala, seated around the table with maps and charts. 

The in-depth portrait of the region at-large is fascinating, but it's also the easy part: a grander application of civil principles I've already explored. After that, my lessons in rudimentary politeness begin, and while I have no trouble with the simplest aspects of 'civilized' behavior such as wearing a shirt (as ludicrous an affectation as that may be) or refraining from unprovoked murder, problems arise when it comes to changing my standard of interpersonal etiquette.

As midnight draws near, Cutter and Angus have just gone home. Chatterly dismissed them shortly after the beginning of our latest exercise, when I broke their arms for repeatedly insulting me.  

"Let's try this one more time," says the spymaster, visibly annoyed. He positions himself on the opposite side of the table from me, sits down, and assumes an air of languorous boredom with one silk-sleeved arm draped across the back of the rickety chair. "This time I will be playing the nobleman. Do try to remember, the idea is to not kill or maim the person speaking to you, no matter how boorish they might seem. If it helps, try and think of ways to get back at them later, but in the moment the facade of civility must be maintained."

I study him for a moment, watching the cavern's sapphire witch-light ripple across his features, and imagine his face is dissolving. 

"You're being unreasonable," I say. "They made fun of my trousers. They criticized my hair. They called my scales 'gaudy', and this stupid muslin shirt - which you made me wear, I might add - shabby. Even as a pantomime, I will not stand for disrespect from creatures so weak! I should have butchered them for such insolence, and yet they were allowed to depart alive."

I spread my hands. "Isn't this progress?" 

Chatterly shakes his head and sighs. "Only by the most technical definition. Conducting yourself appropriately at this party will mean that you must not do violence unless you are attacked first. You may ridicule; you may threaten; you may bluster to your blackened heart's content - but if you lay hands, feet, or golden lightning upon one of the Duke's guests without airtight justification it will cause severe problems for everyone, and endanger your future relationship with Harnburg."

I savor the irony (both a concept and a word for which I'm growing a healthy appreciation). The fact that following the gala the Duke and I won't  have any relationship but victim and killer frees this exercise from any sense of genuine urgency beyond concern for the aesthetics of my impending betrayal and a lingering curiosity about the Lady Isolda; Of course, Chatterly doesn't know that. He believes I have some intention of following through with his demeaning little plan.

"Well," I rumble, folding my mighty arms across my chest, "We can't allow that, can we. Go ahead then. Let's get this charade over with." 

The horrible man nods, shifting his weight. His chair scrapes against the caves stony floor. "Let's. Remember - you're goal is to get through this interaction without trying to maim or kill me." He holds up three fingers and starts counting them down. "Scene begins in three... two... one..." 

Chatterly drops his hand, and his entire aspect changes. The razor-edged attentiveness goes out of his eyes. His angular cheeks sag, and his calm self-assuredness is replaced with an aura of bored superiority. Even his slicked-back hair seems to lose its shine; Without having physically disguised himself in any way, he abruptly seems like an entirely different man. 

"Hoom," he says, his clipped tones reduced to a grating drawl, "You there. You're the fellow everyone's been talking about, aren't you. Harnburg's new golden boy. Jee-something, was it?" 

Swallowing my bitter disdain for him, this process, and the entire concept of acting, I play along. 

"Ghidorah," I hiss. "King Ghidorah." 

Chatterly's eyes widen very slightly and he nods hurriedly, rubbing his chin. "A king then! I see, I see.... though I shouldn't guess you're king of much around here, seeing as you've taken service with Harnburg. King Aragorn is the only king in Camelot, good sir, though I shouldn't think his Majesty will begrudge you your former title so long as you claim no lands. But come! Sit. There are serious matters afoot, and I'm a curious sort of man. "

I remind myself that Chatterly is trying to make me angry. I listen to the patter of water on the cave-walls, focus on the unaccustomed sensation of the fabric stretched across my arms and chest, and very deliberately do not unleash my golden lightning.

"I think that I'll stand," I say, staring down at him. 

The spymaster nods again, making a show of being taken aback and rallying swiftly. "Fair, fair. Suit yourself then. But do tell me, how does a creature like you become involved with human folk? Primes don't need money, and I shouldn't think you have any great love for normal people, looking the way you do. Is it our women you're after, perhaps?"

My brow wrinkles in confusion. Other than perhaps as a novel, time-consuming way to end their species, what possible use could I have for singling out humans by gender? 

"... what?"

"Our women," He continues, favoring me with a conspiratorial smile. "I shouldn't imagine you're finding a surplus of giant golden girls to warm your bed at night, eh?"  

My mind goes blank with crimson fury; The insinuation, the very idea that I would debase myself through any kind of mating behavior with creatures so far below me as to be mere dust beneath my feet is so utterly revolting it shears through any affectation of restraint I may have had. A triple-helix of golden-white lightning erupts from my throat and the palms of both hands, obliterates the table, and crashes against Chatterly's invisible shield, sending cascading arcs of power spitting in all directions, slamming into the walls and ceiling. Choking limestone powder and the scent of scorched air fills the cavern, chunks of rock rain from above, and a crater two meters across appears in the floor.

Chatterly, damn him, is still alive, though thoroughly singed. He darts past me, trailing smoke, and flees up the tunnel towards the valley, his boots somehow silent on the debris-strewn floor. 

By the time I catch up with him, on the grassy night-time slopes of Harnburg Valley, I've calmed down enough to remember that I'm not supposed to kill him yet. For his part, the spymaster is wary, keeping a constant distance between us as he discards his scorched and blackened cloak and tears the now-white-hot necklace from its chain around his neck. Wisps of steam rise from his chest where his metal charm has burned him; where he grips the molten bangle, smoke curls from the leather of his glove. 

Chatterly is thoroughly rattled, and it shows. He's never seen me unleash that much power in my humanoid form before, and he's sweating, shaking, breathing hard. 

It's immensely satisfying - right up until he speaks, in his typical, calmly confident tones, and the effect is ruined. 

"Well done," he says, visibly controlling himself. "You held out longer than I expected. Of course, there's still much work to be done before the gala..." 

He tucks his rapidly-cooling medallion away in a leather pouch hanging on his belt. Wind rustles his tattered clothing, and mine. Clouds cover the stars.  

"...but I think that's enough for tonight."