A Game of Cat and Arse
Hello!
I was, once again, greatly inspired by @kwillow 's characters and I wanted to write up something interesting, as well as delightfully-torturous for Ambroys to go through. So why not make him old and grumpy? Oh, AND there's also older Mortimer who has some devious plans looming ahead of Comte DeLuxe! Now, I know this is very, very self-indulgent, but I might as well make it a series since I just love tormenting the pissy, prissy angelpony so damn much. We'll just see about that...
// CW Mental Anguish/Torture, Medical Themes, Nightmare Sequence, Harrowing Displays of overall Despair and Fear.
The last days of summer are a truly depressing time. The early harvest is long gone from the once-ripe fields, the greenery’s starting to wilt even before the calendar obliges it to, and the last rays of scorching sunlight make their way across dry, worn-out land. It’s summer, still, so the warmth is there for the most part, and there’s still plenty to enjoy! About the good days, that is.
Yet today was certainly not the day to enjoy such pleasantries.
It’s pouring as if out of a bucket. The sky is dim and maintains a veil of boring-gray. It’s also foggy, somehow. Certainly not the best time to enjoy a vacation from town and overall noble duties. And yet, one flamboyant count got an interesting stroke of luck by arriving just a day early for his well-deserved rest. The old-timey coach was brought up close to Bringham Manor - a quaint, isolated nook of English architecture amidst gorgeous rocks of Massif Central, surrounded by red brick and more cobblestone than one could possibly fathom in one gaze. And it’s so, so green and quiet and simply nature-filled here… Truly a perfect vacation spot.
Saint Maud’s Monastery’s bells could be heard, as the structure of olden cobblestone rests right nearby - hence why most locals simply dub it the manor’s chapel. There is always someone out to greet guests by the manor - even in such cranky weather. With the coach arriving, the half a dozen nuns standing close by, huddling beneath three umbrellas in their delicate hands, tensed up and prepared for the count’s arrival. Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait long to see their sponsor once more after nearly a year of absence:
Lord Ambroys DeLuxe always knew how to make a frivolous entrance. Though, this time, he chose to be more conservative with the fanfares. Dressed in naught but a three-piece suit of vibrant pumpkin color, with gold embroidery woven into it in tiny bits and pieces of course, the shining light and the paragon of virtue let his hair down loose. A mixture of gold and silver alike, the halo shone brighter than ever - in spite of a few wrinkles making it onto the glimmering unicorn’s face. His hands remained just as nimble, sharp nails and fingertips toying around with a crimson neckerchief as he stepped out of the coach. Thankfully, all this beauty would not be presented for the sisters in vain - as they rushed over to hold their umbrellas over Ambroys’s weary head instead of theirs.
“Your Eminence, careful!”
“Here, let me hold it for you!”
“You’ll get wet, Your Holiness, come closer!”
“Thank you, thank you, that’s enough, my holy darlings~” Ambroys crooned with mirth in his voice as the flock of lambs tended to him. His silky-smooth voice oozed over their ears like honey, simply forcing others to pay attention to it instead of rain’s constant pitter-pattering. And of course, the holy sisters fell silent, gazing up at their living saint and biggest benefactor with admiration. “...Well! First order of business,” Ambroys continued after a short pause, “Take me to the inner courtyard, please. I yearn to see how my rose bushes are faring!”
And so, Lord DeLuxe’s little helpers did just that. The walk inside was still quite long and a little tedious - especially since the dandy unicorn’s hooves felt cold and wet. The insides were… Average. To Ambroys, of course. He’s so used to baroque furniture, gold embroidery everywhere, and ornate patterns and columns that he simply passes by all the beauty within. The beauty without is what really makes him cherish the Manor nowadays. Ambroys is pacing through the corridors with unseen swiftness. Has he really been that desperate just to see how a dozen of his thousands was faring? Perhaps even so. Lord DeLuxe hasn’t had a chance to rest up so well in a while.
It doesn’t take long for him to reach his destination. Sister Ovis, a once low-ranking sheep of the flock now running the manor’s chapel, has been waiting for him there since early morn. Ambroys really picked up gardening as a major hobby here, and it is of utmost importance that the tools for such were presented to him immediately and whenever necessary. Ovis held just the right size of the garden scissors, alongside a watering can in her other hand and a tiny shovel. One small problem, though - the sheep is right in the hurried unicorn’s way. Ambroys stopped, greeted Ovis with a subtle bow of his head, then dismissively gestured to her with a hand just so she could step away. This instant.
Ah yes, and there they were! The magnificent, poofy roses of white and beige, some even slipping into yellow as a matter of fact. It wasn’t just this particular palette, though - there were as many roses in the inner courtyard as there were natural colors. But the centerpiece was, of course, tended to the most, as it was His Lordship’s favorite. The nuns, in the midst of Ambroys gasping and preening over the flowers, went off to the corner just to gossip and plan on their future arrangements for the count’s vacation. Because, in fact - it was Sister Ovis that requested Ambroys to come down and rest for a week. In a place he’s grown to adore so much for such pleasantries, no less.
The unicorn’s delicate hands reached to gently brush over the raindrops atop his roses. He didn’t care much for getting wet anymore - he was home, his servants and the nuns alike will find something for him to be modest in. For now, all he cared for was the state of his pretties. And they were kept up just about perfectly. His halo glimmering, rendering raindrops around it into steam with a loud hiss, Ambroys almost crouched down and went in to give them a whiff… Honeylike and fresh. Delightful, simple as. Though, it’s evident he reached in a bit to deep, as suddenly:
“Auh! Nnff…” A surprised yelp slipped past the count’s lips. He retreated the grasping hand, only to find his fingertip pricked by one of the thorns. And so, his halo flared up in suppressed rage for the first time in ages… The younger Ambroys would have scorched the bush to the ground, even if it was his favorite. And yet, age muddled this prissy pony down. He simply laughed it off and went back in, just to ruffle those pretty flowers of his. And yet, as his hand was turned the other way, Ambroys could see the back of his palm start to… Bubble. Dark warts suddenly appeared on his fingers and ravaged his delicate skin with pus. Naturally, the unicorn gasped in horror and shook his hand away. Ambroys quickly stumbled back, and his eyes caught a shadowy figure - more cloak than man, really - disappearing behind the courtyard’s columns.
“Your Holiness! Milord, what happened?!” Ovis and others yelled out loud, rushing over just to see… A pricked finger. Typical Ambroys - such a drama queen over such minuscule inconveniences.
Though, at least Ambroys had the decency to shake off others’ worries - or at least try to: “Nothing! Nothing, I’m alright,” he said. Though the sisters and servants both flocked around him to see the pinprick with a droplet of golden blood coating it.
“...Are you sure you’re alright, Your Eminence? It’s almost like you saw a ghost,” Ovis inquired, whilst urging him to come back inside. Ambroys, in turn, made a content face and nodded along, stepping aside and out of the rain.
“Oh, there’s no such thing as ghosts around here! Especially with you safeguarding it, Ovis, dear,” Ambroys continued, schmoozing the stalwart nun who made him wipe his hooves on the carpet. “I ah… I thought it was a wasp, and I don’t quite like those, as you know, hm-hmh!”
Still, His Lordship looked quite shaken-up by the experience. He must be cold and tired from the long trip here, Ovis thought. Thus, with a somber nod of her head, and with a rude little whiff down his side, she concluded: “...You need a bath. And a fresh set of garments before dinner. And swiftly, Your Eminence.”
Surprisingly enough, Ambroys wasn’t one to argue currently. So, while still bringing the whole thing down, he nodded in affirmation: “Certainly. Let that be arranged, lest you already have.”
Something strange is happening with the Manor. Yet Ambroys chooses to ignore it and get his rest anyway. Out of sight - out of mind!
“Ahhh…” A warm bath certainly hits the spot. Finally left in complete solitude after exchanging pleasantries with local servants and Ovis, his beloved manor-manager, Ambroys cherished the quiet and his own thoughts being less intrusive. No more rich garments - only natural perfection. Though, the rose-prick stung a little as he sunk in, steam rising from a bath of both porcelain and brass while the water levels changed altogether. Ambroys sunk down deeper, deeper, until all that peeked out of the rippling water was his weary head and wet mane.
Truly, the water’s embrace was more warm and comfortable than a blanket’s. A veil of soothing, transparent void enveloped the whole of Ambroys’s body, and he let himself relax - slowly, muscle by muscle. The intrusive thoughts stopped for a while, as, indeed, the best way to confront these was alone and directly. Perhaps Sister Ovis was right. Perhaps he is seeing things thanks to exhaustion from the trip. A moment of weakness others allowed him to have - but nothing more than that! And so, all worries melted away with the strain and stress within Comte DeLuxe’s muscles… He opened his eyes, and let the glimmer of candles take up his vision, with many other pleasantries surrounding him, too.
Ambroys felt himself going stiff again. It was time to change poses, or actually wash through the wet golden mane. And so the water rippled again, as the count stood tall and proud with oils and floral soaps making their way into his hands. Eyes still in a haze of sorts, Ambroys then used the big brass ladle by the side to douse himself in more flower water, washing the whole of his tiresome state off along with all that soap. He spent about three minutes enjoying the remaining heat and preening himself, all in the privacy he oh-so missed in Ovis and others’ presence. Little did he know it’d come to bite him in the shin:
As the count’s glimmering eyes looked down again, they found Ambroys’s silhouette in the still-rippling reflection. But alongside it - there was that same hooded, shadowy figure, pinned to the ceiling by its own claws. Ambroys’s face froze in terror, as it slowly craned its neck back, and then - krr-kHRRk - it snapped backward, with its cheshire-cat grin glimmering in dim candlelight.
“GAH!-” Ambroys let a shrill scream slip through his lips, as his own neck craned back and nearly snapped on its own accord. That caused the count a lot of pain, and, as he reached to grasp at his wincing spine - his own hooves slipped on the tub.
The thud was loud, but the splashing that followed was louder. And as Ambroys stared at the ceiling with a bitter scowl - no one was there to be found, once again. In pain and frustrated beyond reprieve, his own bodily heat got the water boiling, but then - Sister Ovis came by, and the count had to steady himself before his most trusted agent.
“Milord? Are you alright?” Ovis’s voice faintly came through the door.
“Why yes! Of course I’m alright, I err…” Ambroys paused, then continued with a slight stammer in his voice: “I ah… I tripped in the tub. Embarrassing, I know-”
Sister Ovis’s dramatic gasp then interrupted the count. “Oh my days! Are you hurt?!” she inquired, as the door handle twisted and she was ready to barge in.
“No!!!” Ambroys raised his voice, all of a sudden. Truly, he didn’t wish to be in his birthday suit before Ovis of all people! “Ahem, I mean - of course not, I’m quite alright,” Ambroys continued, now in a less volatile manner.
It seems crisis has been averted. Ovis fell silent for a short while, but then replied: “...Well, regardless - I do hope you’ll have the time to come by for dinner. We’ve prepared a whole feast for you, Milord - and my experience tells me you’re going to love it!”
“Right on, Ovis, dear! I’ll be there in fifteen,” Ambroys raised his voice again, yet with a certain jive - he sure made the naive nun think everything’s alright with him... When everything was, in fact, not fucking alright.
Even as Ambroys haphazardly put his shirt and pants back on, and fixed the pre-tied bow over his neck, he still couldn’t get the shuddering out of his body. Just what… Was that creature?! Something about it spoke of a familiar experience, way deep in the past. And yet after such a long time, who knows just what might have happened. But this was certainly not fitting the “seeing things” theory anymore. Someone is sending harrowing visions his way, and there might be someone dangerous really close by. That all-too familiar feeling of restlessness and paranoia returned. There will be no rest in this manor any longer for Count DeLuxe. He needs to find the traitor, weed him out, and - oh! Dinner is just about perfect for attending to it.
The once-shimmering unicorn came to dinner with his hair still wet and mop-like. Furthermore, all of the makeup washed off, and the subtle, yet noticeable flaws of his physique were slowly revealing themselves to the public: Decades of secretive bloodletting left Ambroys’s skin pallid and ridden with unhealthy freckles. Constant stress and paranoia made the dark bags under his eyes so prominent it’s almost as if he doesn’t sleep at all. Poor diet was starting to take its toll on the once-nimble body, too, as Comte DeLuxe appears much less toned, even if his garments remain the same, and flatter him just as well. Worst of all, the scars from that aforementioned endeavor were barely withering away, so he certainly had to wear long sleeves around others. Always. And that sure made him a little bothered within, especially since the dining hall was warmed by a grand, ornate fireplace.
Nevertheless, Ambroys took his rightful seat at the head of that grand table, and, indeed - the table was stuffed aplenty with all sorts of delicacies. In particular, the count noticed some of his favorites laying around. The golden rose-petal jam simply called to him… Now, it would be uncouth to start off with dessert, so Ambroys indulged in some other dishes placed around here. Oh, the potato salad was simply gorgeous! And yet, nothing seemed to halt his train of thought.
There it was, the cowardly gaze, scanning the table in search of oddities in pleasantries’ stead. Nothing entertained the count in his cozy castle anymore. All he thought about was that harrowing visage, of some thing grinning at him. Surely, there must be a demon somewhere around here! And, with his undisputed expertise, he shall find it. However, that stare Ambroys has surely attracted Ovis’s attention. She says nothing, sitting by his side, but the tension is there. Ambroys keeps looking, with fork still in hand and salad dripping back onto the plate… Nothing. Until the shadowy figure suddenly makes its entrance, and it’s right there! At the table! Dining at the other end!
“There it is!” Ambroys bellowed, jumping up from his seat and aiming his fork at whatever he just saw. The nuns, the servants, and the occasional guest shuddered and leaned back in sheer terror. Ambroys was supposed to be the paragon of virtue, and yet - he looked ill. Malnourished. Mad. And as the count tried to rush himself towards the seat by the other side, Ovis tried to interfere.
“Milord, what happened? What did you see? What are you doing? Please, put the utensils away, let us talk!” Ovis pleaded, holding onto the limping unicorn’s forearm. And yet nothing could stop Ambroys in his quest for the shadowy silhouette he just saw. Only to be made a fool again, as the seat was utterly empty, alongside most of the others at the back.
“But… But it was right there… He was sitting right there, I saw him with my own eyes!!!” Ambroys raised his voice yet again, standing still and holding the knife as if it was glued in his fist. Ovis tried her best to remove it, then simply urged him to try and sit down, but - the stubborn arse didn’t budge.
And yet again she inquired, this time without much hope: “What was there, Milord? Who was it that you saw? What is-”
“The Killjoy Mage!!!” Ambroys bellowed, hysterically shaking and trembling in sheer rage and fear. This was a fit like no other, truly. “I see him everywhere,” he continued, “At the bathchambers, in my own garden, in- In my private quarters! He chases me! There must be a witch around here… Yeees, there IS a witch here…”
Delusional as he was, Ovis chose to step away, her own hands trembling in terror the demented, frightened little nobleman brought into her. And still she looked up to him. He needed help! But sometimes, help isn’t able to come where it matters.
“Which one of you betrayed me, you loathsome bastards? Who let a witch into my own sanctuary?! WHO?!” Ambroys continued yelling, and slammed his knife into the ornate table. His halo burnt brighter than ever, with clouds of steam puffing out of his nostrils, clouding his enraged face in the midst of it all.
“If no one confesses, I will personally gh… G-Grngh…” Something interrupted the raging donkey. He couldn’t swallow - his throat swelled up within, to unimaginable proportions. It was like something was stuck in there, and, simultaneously, caused the worst heartburn of his many years on here. The free hand grasped at his chest, trying to tear the shirt off, as his eyes, nose, and lips suddenly got wet with their respective fluids. He was crying, but stiff and unable to perform any expression but a perpetual gasp. It was difficult to breathe. Ambroys was heaving in and out, with gross, sloppy gurgles oozing past his grit teeth. Has he been… Poisoned?!
The warts returned. Not just to his hand, no - they slowly spread across the entirety of his body. Furthermore, it seems as if fungus starts to take over while he’s still there, breathing, somewhat. Ambroys collapses onto the table, holding on for dear life, feeling tremendous pain across the whole of his body, and the shadowy figure sitting right next to him. That paw. Its silvery claws stroke through his mane. The too-hot touch all-too familiar to the angelic being. And soon, as his lungs grow tired and collapse over themselves, Ambroys DeLuxe slips into the blissful retreat of unconsciousness…
***
Fire. It was close by. The wood’s crackling way too loudly for it to be real, and yet - the flame’s glimmering feels like such. It seems that Ambroys received a smooth awakening right next to the fireplace. His skin felt… Waxy. Strangely enough, it didn’t feel unpleasant - it’s more so a consequence of how tiresome and stiff his joints have become. Slowly, but surely, the count tried to open his eyes - and although his eyelids felt heavy, too heavy, he managed to open them and give his surroundings a look-over:
To be frank, it wasn’t his manor anymore. Far from it. The house he’s in is darker, dimmer, simpler in design. And with that in mind - a fair bit more sinister. Nothing feels right about it, even though the warm tones of furniture around him create an aura of some coziness. Ambroys’s eyes dashed around, as they couldn’t focus on the fireplace alone. The fire was too much. Somehow, this fire is too much even for someone like him. And boy does his wood creak as he tries to move his neck elsewhere! Wait. Wait a second - wood?! That wasn’t right. Nothing besides his eyes could move, and the texture of whatever lied beneath was wooden, for some reason. Ambroys could feel it - he could feel the fire getting closer, warming him up within and without, until he could possibly catch fire and suffer in surprising silence.
Then, Comte DeLuxe’s pink peepers glanced at the mirror: What in the name of the Lord… He’s been turned into a puppet! Indeed, Ambroys was only a third of his “normal” size, yet most of his body still looked quite similar to one of flesh. It was no cheap mockery, but rather - something a possible admirer of his could build. Something to truly immortalize him in heart and mind. Though, of course, he looked a lot younger, especially since he was dressed in his old, pastel-pink garments. It was the same bow, the same pantaloons… The same buttons, even. The replica was almost-indistinguishable from his earlier portraits, and yet - something was certainly off. About everything this new body of his represented.
“Gnn… Gnneeehh!...” Ambroys’s artificial jaw fell down, revealing more of his teeth of real ivory, alongside ornate fangs of gold. By God, someone tried to make him real QUITE fervently, huh? It’s some movement and noise, at least. Maybe someone, or something, that occupies these grounds would notice him. As, still, something was awfully familiar about this place. Maybe that’s where he gets the sinister chill down his spine from.
Then - it was that voice that made Ambroys remember everything. Indeed, it was him. The Killjoy Mage. Someone who haunted him for decades after making a deal with him - one of many haunting bastards, go figure! And yet, this one’s special. This one’s persistent, and fervent like hell when it comes to getting what he wants. Either way - his voice sent more chills down Ambroys’s spine: “Ah, wonderful. It seems that my little lordling is finally awake. Splendid, we have lots to catch up on…” The shadowy, hooded figure said, and, after taking said hood down - stepped out of its comfortable darkness:
Even by looks alone, it is evident that Baron Killjoy and Mortimer Killinger are two separate personas. While Ambroys remembers Morty to be a timid man, always focused on his books and research instead of socializing, Baron Killjoy was his “real” self - to be put out into the world and be admired, or harrowed, by the masses.
Not much changed about Killjoy, but the imperfections were polished off with age. And, speaking of age - Killnger aged like fine wine: His once-black fur now stood at a classic gray for his breed, the somewhat-short muzzle of a British Shorthair ever-expressive. With the fur graying out, mind you, the hair, too, followed the Killinger line, and turned snow-white instead of the nut-brown he once possessed - trimmed short and layered neatly into a “doctoral” side-part. And the garments, oh, the garments! Simple, but effective. A black, double-breasted coat encapsulated his entire upper half, though the beige sleeves and collar of his shirt still made him look a-la Gepetto of sorts, beneath all that fancy leather. His workpants, too, seemed a little too casual for such an encounter - and the heavy, studded workboots seemed a little out of place for someone as gentle as Morty usually is. He’s playing a character, however, and he’s doing it exceptionally-well.
Ambroys still couldn’t move, mind you - and he wouldn't. Not in this damned Mage’s presence. Killjoy, in the meantime, stepped forth and let his gloved hands caress through the silky-smooth mane of the puppet. His puppet. And then, the hands picked the little pony up by his waist, letting him see the big, paunchy cat’s face from up close… As well as such minor details as his own cadaver laying down in the shadows. The room seems to be neverending, and there’s nothing to look at besides Mortimer’s smug, grinning mug. With gray fur, his eyeliner is much more noticeable. And, somehow messier. Indeed, it dribbles down almost to his dimple-ridden cheeks! And boy does it work as a tactic of intimidation!
“You wouldn’t believe what lengths I had to go to just so we could meet in person again, Amby,” Mortimer said, still grinning.
“What… What did you do? Give me my real body back, you foul sorcerer! Release me at once!!!” Ambroys replied. Wait - he replied! Yes! And now he could move his limbs around, too! Naturally, he went in to try and slap, as well as kick, Killjoy where it counts, but alas - that was comical. Almost akin to a baby trying to protest being put to bed.
And just like how his movements returned, they once again stopped in their entirety. Now Ambroys couldn’t even move his eyes around - only make a few faint noises through the crackling voicebox wedged down his throat.
“Now-now, this isn’t how we greet the host, do we? Ah, perhaps you’re cold - let me move you closer to the fire!” Mortimer spoke, swiftly, making decisions upon decisions for Ambroys and in his stead. The puppet was, once again, placed in its respective seat, and moved so close to the fire there was a danger of sparks setting it on fire. And by God was it hot. Ambroys can’t stand it, he yearns to move away, and yet - all there is to it is some frantic whinnying and whimpering out of the damned voicebox.
While the shimmering unicorn-muppet is straining and suffering, Mortimer continues to monologue, unencumbered and unbothered with his captive’s harrowed state: “You must understand, my darling Count, that this isn’t a permanent fixture. You’ll return back to your mortal shell in a good few, but I still wanted for you to have a… Temporary vessel. So that you could witness just what it is like, to be a witch in the less tolerant times - just how you left me behind, actually. I really needed your help, and you were nowhere to be found as the mob swarmed our frat house. Don’t you remember, Amby? Well, I do. And now you get a bitter aftertaste of MY memories…”
Whatever Mortimer meant by that could not be anything good. Sparks flew closer and closer to the armchair, as Ambroys couldn’t move his eyes away from the flame. It was getting too dry, too hot, too uncomfortable. And as he sits there, helplessly, the fire licks at his lacquered booties. Suffering of the past, the present, and the future comes in assaulting tidal waves of visions through the firepit, causing his mind to flow into overdrive already. The panicking donkey is making just a bit too much noise, so Mortimer buries a nut in between its jaws… Then another one, and another one, enjoying the sight whilst using his puppet like a nutcracker.
“Mm. Feel it already, don’t you?” Morty asked, cheekily chuckling, “Usually, you suffocate with carbon monoxide before the flames engulf your body in full, but, well - it’s a fireplace… A single spark can’t do much harm to you anyway, right? Oh, my little Pinocchio - you have so many debts to repay! Not just to me, but all that you’ve duped - and I will make sure you repay all of them, and way, WAY above, in full! Ha-ha-HEE-HAWW, you slimy, frilly, fffruity fucking donkey! You will HEE-HAAAW for my entertainment, for ALL eternity, you conniving little shit! Ha-ha-haaahhh!!!”
Truly, by the end of his monologue, the accursed mage turned as unhinged as Ambroys once was. A spark finally hit his stocking, and it started going ablaze. The pain was unbearable, and yet the trapped count couldn’t even scream. He saw dozens, hundreds of replicas just like his mind was placed into, hanging off the walls in various poses, with various tools used to pulverize their bodies. And as he’s gone fully ablaze, the smell of burning lacquer soon filled his nostrils. Baron Killjoy’s deep, sinister laugh filled his consciousness, until all he could hear were his own, shrill screams of pain and terror. And then… It was no more.
***
T’was a rude awakening for Comte DeLuxe. Eyes open wide, his chest heaved as he felt the rush of adrenaline from the fever dream he’s just woken up from. And yet, Ambroys didn’t move. He chose not to, because the worst heartburn of his life and the muscle pain from the poison still flooded his senses - as soon as the adrenaline wore down, somewhat. He was conveniently placed under a blanket, which covered him from the neck down, and it was… Comforting. Seems to be cold, too, which is surprising all things considered.
“Musta been here for a while,” Ambroys said out loud, after feeling just how sticky and wet his back has become. And, in the midst of it, he heard voices. One of Ovis and one of… No. It couldn’t be. Was Ovis of all people not smart enough to figure out she shouldn’t bring strangers into the Manor?! Frustrated as he is, Ambroys chose not to lash out this time, and instead - carefully listened to what the “good doctor” and his supposed most loyal servant were talking about:
“I don’t… I don’t even understand how something could happen, you know?” Ovis spoke, audibly nervous and on the verge of tears, “Comte DeLuxe does have a temper, but this wasn’t him there. It wasn’t like him, Doctor, I just…”
“You panicked, Sister, I understand,” the physician replied, somber and calm in comparison, “Perhaps it was simply out of your reach. I am glad you called me for help right away, however. I have been conducting therapy with Comte DeLuxe for ah, quite some time, so perhaps I can provide some proper assistance.”
A pause followed suit, as if they listened to the count breathe through the door. “So, what could be the reason for such a… Flip-out?” Ovis asked, sniffling and trying her best to calm down.
The doctor, in turn, didn’t reply for a good few seconds: “Hmm… It’s hard to say for certain at this stage, Sister. But as I have experience with Monsieur Ambroys, his mental health condition has been severely neglected by himself and his surroundings.”
“Y-Yes, yes, that much I know,” the nun stammered, “But maybe… Any predictions? Wild guesses? Please, Doctor, I just want to know how I can-”
Ambroys could still see their silhouettes. With each sentence said, his nightmare was becoming more and more real. The doctor’s round, feline ears flickered, and his paw was raised to stop the scared sheep from speaking. She might say too much. And so, the doctor spoke, instead:
“Help him, Sister? In all honesty, the best you can do is provide care as if nothing odd is happening. If my theory and experience might help you anyhow, I do believe the Count is going through a severe episode of depressive psychosis. We don’t usually get such strong outrages from diagnosed patients, but who knows. He does have inclinations towards antisocial personality disorder, as well, from what reports I have read on the matter…”
Ovis was shocked. And oh, Ambroys couldn’t scream, either - he’s too tired and terrified to even blubber out some sort of distress signal. In the meantime, the higher sister broke down crying, in spite of her best attempts to steady herself:
“Dear God, I… I don’t know how it could of happened, Doctor, I’m-”
“Devastated, I know. Perhaps the Count you knew and loved is buried somewhere beneath this veil of madness. I’ll do my best, I promise. I will help Comte DeLuxe return back to his holy, lovable self.”
Mortimer pat Ovis’s shoulder, and then guided her towards the door: “So - shall we check in on our patient? I believe I heard some rustling nearby, which means he must be doing better, somehow…”
A short nod from the sheep’s side later, the two of them entered Ambroys’s smaller, yet oh-so private quarters. Indeed, the worst possible scenario for Ambroys was unraveling right before his eyes. Dr. Killinger was right there, next to a devastated Sister Ovis, dressed quite formally and rocking a white labcoat once again. His red cravat contrasted well with that beige shirt of his, and, oh boy - he appeared almost the same as he was in Ambroys’s harrowing nightmare. The eyeliner’s cleaner, however, and his gloves are a sickly-cyan - ones expected to be found around proper medical doctors. Amber eyes hidden behind big and round, metallic glasses, he still held Ovis by the shoulder as if to comfort her.
“I h-heard… Every-thing you said…” The Count hissed, as his eyes fixated on Mortimer instead of Ovis. And then, they flickered on over to the nun, staring her down with judgment and sorrow: “Do you… Do you actually believe this man, Ovis? What did I tell you about letting strangers into-”
“I apologize, Milord, but I believe it is no stranger,” Ovis suddenly interrupted Ambroys, “He is your court physician of many years. Mortimer… Killinger, was it?” Mortimer nodded. “Yes, yes - he was written down in your phone-book, and he also ended up to be quite nearby, so…”
“So I came running,” Dr. Killinger said, “My, you certainly look a lot worse than I thought. Maybe it’s the heat?”
“The heat… The heat?!” Ambroys asked, giggling in the most unhinged manner possible, as his eye twitched, and he tried to yank himself out of the bed. And yet - it didn’t budge. His limbs didn’t. Ovis was quick and careful enough with the blanket, and the Count could see just how utterly fucked he was: His wrists, ankles, waist, and neck were strapped in shut. The cowhide wouldn’t budge, but the straps in question also didn’t hurt - the bracelets are padded well enough for that to never-ever happen. His head and mane are both wrapped up with more straps - ones that monitor his brain activity, while his right forearm bears a needle taped taut to it, and a drop counter with a mysterious, transparent fluid.
Ambroys tries to yank himself up, again and again. And when that doesn’t work - steam oozes out of his nostrils. Ambroys prepares to use fire, and burn this whole place to the ground! Everyone around him is a traitor, now! Misguided fools! And yet - nothing comes of it, as well.
“My… My halo. Where’s my halo?!” The Count bellowed, as if to himself, his eyes going wide at the realization: The magic within his blood is-
“Suppressed, for the time being,” Mortimer said, “You could pose a danger to yourself and others, Comte DeLuxe. Please, remain outstretched, struggling won’t get you anywhere.”
Oh yeah. Now Ambroys is terrified. His teeth grit shut, his gaze shifts to the sniffling, misguided sheep once more: “Ovis? Sister Ovis. What did you do? What did you let him put IN me? What is going on?!” The unicorn stammered, as his body still shifted and squirmed in an attempt to at least loosen the straps.
“I-It’s for your own good, Milord,” she said, “It’s some sort of suppressant, I’m not quite aware of it, the- Dr. Killinger knows better. I…”
Ambroys, in the midst of it, continued to rile himself up more: “Ovis, please, y-you can hear me now, I am coherent, I am truly and utterly sane, release me. Release me at once, th- this is treason, you can’t-”
“I think it’s best you go, he’s getting rowdy again,” Mortimer said, and Ovis obeyed. All to the utter horror and despair of Ambroys DeLuxe: “Ovis! No! Stay here! Observe what you did to me! D-Don’t leave me with him! Don’t leave meeee!!! Please!!! Please…”
Now it is the Son of God who’s on the verge of tears here. Ovis stormed out of his chamber and locked the door shut. And from this point on, Mortimer and Ambroys could speak tete-a-tete.
“Hm-hm-hmh! You sure got me, you sssslimy motherfucker,” Ambroys hissed at the big cat in front of him, giggling some more afterward, “So? What’s it going to be? Magic? You’re going to show off just how cool of a puppeteer you are, by guiding all of MY sheep to do YOUR bidding? For shame, you’re pathetic, you’re disgusting, and I was right to le-EENNFF!!!”
A gloved paw clasped over Ambroys’s muzzle. And then - Mortimer grinned like the Cheshire Cat he is. “You look upset,” he chimed, “Why don’t we check your stomach out a little? It must ache quite a lot after such a plentiful feast, Milord.” And with that said, Dr. Killinger reached in for his bag, and pulled out a strange metallic contraption. It looked like braces, of sorts, but the teeth were meant to be slotted into the surrounding metal sheathing. And there was this harrowing “tongue” meant to pin one of flesh strictly downward. There was also a long, long thin tube of plastic ready to be shoved in… Oh no.
It isn’t often Ambroys would prefer to keep his mouth shut - but now is one of those rare occasions. His jaws are clasped taut, and steam keeps oozing out of his nostrils in clouds. There isn’t much he can do, but Mortimer simply sighs in disappointment, and clasps the gloved hand over his nose, instead. “Really, Ambroys? I thought you already knew better than to resist my assaults. Especially when you’re this powerless,” Mortimer kept talking in the meantime, all-too condescendingly at that. Still, Ambroys at least tried to be brave in the face of the enemy. And even though his struggle was valiant - it was, indeed, rather pointless. With his lungs burning and his mind about to shut down again, the shimmering unicorn relented and parted his jaws for a gasp - all for Dr. Killinger’s convenience.
A taste of polished steel soon made its way onto the Count’s tongue. His jaws were forced to part just a little wider, so that the “feeding vessel” could fit in without any interruptions. With the tongue pinned and the teeth sheathed by more sturdy metal, Ambroys started to yell obscure obscenities at the healer-mage - in a last-ditch effort to summon Ovis, someone, anyone to help him. That help never came, so the unicorn shook his head and tried to make it as hard as possible for Mortimer to work. Though, with a knee roughly pinning his chest further down, Ambroys couldn’t quite move anywhere else. And so, with more yowling to come - the semi-transparent thing slowly made its descent through the stubborn bastard’s maw.
“GhkhKHAAAUFF!- GhRGHRL- GHRNGHKK!!!-” Ahh yes - there it is. The muffled noise of sheer desperation and the gag reflex working against one’s whole body. Ambroys thrashed and held his eyes wide-open, while Mortimer only continued to shove it further down his esophagus.
The doctor, in the midst of his captive patient’s agony, simply enjoyed himself and kept on babbling: “Ahh, so you can feel it already, huh? Silly little lordling, you think I’d waste my magic to torment some trash of your kind? You’re still so naive, even after all these years! No, why would I use my precious resources, when I can make you sob like a bitch with some metal and plastic? Ah, looks like I missed a spot, hold on…”
All of a sudden, Mortimer yanked the tube back from Ambroys’s trachea, and crudely shoved it back again, causing the Count to retch and hurgle while still pinned in place. A few more ins and outs followed suit, nice and slow. The feeling was horrible. It’s almost like Ambroys was ready to spill his breakfast out, and yet - his pathways for such were blocked off by that damned instrument. Dr. Killinger smiled quite fully and smugly while he tormented Ambroys, casually pushing the tube in and out to his desire. After all, “he’s just observing.” Ambroys’s whole body was stiff. His fists repeatedly slammed against the bed while still strapped in - not unlike his younger self throwing a pitiful temper-tantrum. His stomach vibrated from the amount of times it tried to spill its contents, then disallowed to do so. Truly, pain would be preferred to this sort of draining humiliation…
This went on for several minutes. Ambroys counted seconds. In, out, in, out, in, out… He lost count by the time Mortimer’s done. His whole face, and the pillow beneath, is coated in tears, snot, and drool, as well as whatever other bodily fluids Ambroys could possibly produce in his sorry state. His bellows and yowls were reduced to pitiful whimpering. His whole body was trying to move away from “his” healer, utterly terrified of what else he could do. But, all Mortimer concerned himself with was wiping the filth off his patient’s face, and gently petting through his gilded mane.
“I believe we’re just about done with the examination part,” he said, “You, my little lordling, have one hell of an ulcer. We will have to put you on a strict diet and see if it improves in a week or two.”
“Gh-Ghhmmff… Pweeebff!...” The unicorn pleaded and tried to reason with Killinger, still trapped and entirely in his grasp.
“Please what? Oh, don’t you worry - I’ll set you up alright! It’ll be a full-body detox for a sick stomach, and a sick mind alike,” the good doctor replied, finally dismounting Ambroys and taking a seat next to him. Seems like he has some notes prepared in his clipboard… As well as a spare pencil, and a few sheets of paper. Those are all given to the simpering count, as he lays and tries to regain some forces before the next bit of his “healing process.”
“Now,” Morty continued, “Before we begin - I must say, dear Ambroys: Out of all the four dozen shit-smeared angels I’ve found over the years, you are still the most entertaining. That’s good for you, long-term. Because it means you aren’t boring to me. And I hate boring people, which meeeaaans you still get to live! After we’re done, of course- But that’s besides the point! Let me explain how we’re going to do things around here…” And so, Mortimer leaned in really close, his ever-present smile vanishing in place for a horrible, dead-within face:
“I will ask you questions. Many of them. You will give me a detailed, but straightforward answer. Depending on how well you answer these, your healing process could be swift or slow. I will not let you be until all have been answered, and I have been satisfied with the quality of said answers. Do you understand?”
“Uh-huh, Uh-huhhmf!” Ambroys nodded and desperately mumbled. He got the assignment, alright.
“Good. Now for the consequences: Avoid the answer, resist, go off on a tangent - I don’t care. This all counts as dissatisfying me. Dissatisfy me once, and I’ll force-feed you the leftover slop from that feast. Dissatisfy me twice, and I’ll ensure you get a daily, thorough colon-cleansing with ginger-water. Continue to act like a lowly ass, and I’ll find ways to make you talk. Believe me. You do not, want, to resist me this time. Do you?”
“Nghogh! Nogh aff aghll!” The olden angelic bastard shook his head for emphasis, and thus - received some more head-petting for cooperation. With the pencil already in his trembling hand, he’s ready to answer questions - just to get rid of his tormentor as soon as possible. And so, without any more instructions - they could begin their long, arduous process of putting Ambroys DeLuxe back on good track. Though, the first question already made the poor count wail, as Mortimer leaned back and casually ordered:
“...Tell me all that you know about the trials and whereabouts of Lord Hyden.”
To Be Continued.