#memedievil

[memedievil]

Sir Daniel: Please don't tell me you're gonna ask my opinion on something.

Al-Zalam: Now why would I do that when I have so many amazing opinions of my own?

[the-reddish-muse]

For the Memedievil contest!

I’m actually quite proud of this one!! 83

[kainissoable]

Enemy of My Enemy

[For the @memedievil prompt competition. As always, you can also read this fic on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15772497 ] Lord Palethorn was not happy. In fact he was seething.  Since his latest defeat he had done nothing but complain, argue, and find fault with his minions – not that that was any different to usual. If any of them had been unwise enough to follow him into the cellar they would have heard him muttering to himself as he painted the floor with blood. “Couldn’t mind his own bloody business could ‘e… had to bring that damned skeleton into things… bastard took out both those damned idiots and didn’t even have the decency to slit their throats for me…” The decidedly non-magical Cockney grumblings were at odds with the complex red sigils at his feet. They seemed to glow strangely in the lamplight – at least, the parts which remained visible after they were painted. There was the distinct impression that normal rules of geometry did not apply here. Palethorn checked the diagram on the page again. Strange that Zarok would have written such a spell, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He lit the candles around the outermost edge of the circle and began the incantation. The shadows in the corners of the room deepened; a wind blew up from far beyond the mortal plane, making the candle flames dance to Death’s tune. As they wavered, the lines on the floor grew brighter. Palethorn fancied he could hear, just on the edge of hearing, the whispering of damned souls calling out to the living. He raised his voice and read on above the eldritch susurration. The red light of the blood sigils continued to grow until he was forced to turn his head away. He put a hand on the rustling papers to stop them blowing off the lectern and squinted at the spidery handwriting. With the final lines of the incantation the light faded from blinding to merely painful and Palethorn risked looking up. A figure stood in the centre of the circle, lit as if by hellfires. Silence fell with the last word of the spell, the air stilled, and the light turned from brooding red to amber. The room returned to something almost human. Almost. Demons and shades alike could be fickle beasts, as Palethorn knew. He would need to be careful. He could feel the judgement in the being’s gaze as it looked around the room. “Where,” said the figure, distaste etched into every word, “is this?” Palethorn knelt. “O great and powerful Lord Zarok, I do summon and abjure thee to rise up against thine ancient enemy.” The unimpressed gaze was turned on him. “You sound like a cheap demonology tome. Stop grovelling and tell me why I’m here.” “Lord Zarok, I have proven myself your worthy successor by retrieving your spell book.” He risked a glance up at the still-unimpressed face and rethought his tactic. Getting up from his knees, he tried again in a far more normal voice. “I used your book to summon the undead and now I want your help.” Zarok pursed his lips. “No.” “Advice, then.” “Still no.” “Oh, come on!” A Cockney twang slipped through in his annoyance. “I’m getting my arse kicked here!” Zarok looked up to the ceiling, back down to Palethorn, and answered. “I don’t care.” “I only need a quick opinion.” “It took me two seconds to tell you I don’t care, that’s as quick as it gets.” He lifted up his skirts, stepped daintily out of the circle and started up the stairs while Palethorn stood spluttering. “You- you can’t do that! I command you to get back into the circle!” It worked, insofar as it got Zarok to pause for a moment. “I think you’ll find that I can. You didn’t really think I’d write an incantation that could bind me, did you? Goodbye.” With a dismissive wave over his shoulder, he continued up the stairs. “But what am I going to do about Fortesque?” Palethorn called after him. “Fortesque?” For the first time, there was a note of genuine interest in his voice. Palethorn grinned to himself. How easy it was when you found the right levers. “That’s right,” he drawled. “Fortesque. And I’m offering you a chance at revenge. What do you say?” “On second thoughts, I could be persuaded to lend my expert opinion.” “Excellent.” Palethorn put an arm around his shoulder and led the necromancer upstairs. “Dogman! Mander!” he called once they were in the foyer. Mander scuttled in at high speed, his partner not far behind. “Make our guest feel welcome, won’t you? See the best dinner service is laid out, that sort of thing.” “Yes master, er-” Zarok's question cut him off. “And these are?” “My men,” Palethorn admitted. “You need better men,” Zarok said flatly. Palethorn nodded. “Master,” Mander began. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.” “But master, the Count-” “Idiot!” Palethorn snapped. “I told you to notify me as soon as he got here!” Mander cowered. “Yes master, but you also gave us orders not to interrupt you.” Palethorn briefly considered striking the slimy little bugger with his staff, but decided against it. He turned back to Zarok and forced a smile onto his face. “Allow me to introduce you to the rest of our little team.” The necromancer reluctantly allowed himself to be led into the parlour. His estimation of the group took a sudden upturn upon entering, and he wasted no time in saying so. “A vampire, now, that’s far more like it. I approve of the vampire, even if he doesn’t have any sense of style or fashion.” The Count raised his head from the back of the sofa and glared at him. Seemingly oblivious, Zarok started questioning Palethorn about the rest of his band and was less than impressed by his answers. Nothing was up to the skinny bastard’s standards; his demons were too few, his revenants too weak, his mortal minions incompetent. Palethorn listened with as much patience as he could until the man finally stopped complaining. “Well?” “Well what?” “I was waiting for the ‘constructive’ part of your constructive criticism.” Zarok thought for a while. An inner debate seemed to be raging. Finally, he came to a decision. “There is something,” he said slowly, “that my own mentor told me back when I was young and beautiful.” “Yes?” Palethorn asked eagerly. The necromancer looked deep into his eyes and answered. “Do better.”

[memedievil]

Sir Daniel: Not only did mama raise a quitter, but she also raised a procrastinator, people-pleaser, doormat, coward, and liar, and you can’t put a price on that.

[memedievil]

The Count: Did you just say that a knife is a “person-opener”?

Jack the Ripper: Should I not have?

[memedievil]

Sir Daniel: Recipes be like step one heat oil.

Sturnguard: Step two, dump it over the edge of the ramparts to discourage ladder based climbing.

[memedievil]

Imanzi: Heavy is the chest that wears the tits or whatever.

[memedievil]

Woden: You make me so angry so quickly. It's remarkable.

Sir Daniel: Omg I literally only said 6 words!

Woden: And yet here I am boiling with hate.