Wheaties may be the breakfast of champions, but beer and pancakes is the breakfast of the gods.
I may be getting a little far ahead of myself, sorry. Anyway, I kept my mouth shut about how unfamiliar I was with my current state, and simply asked to be led to the bath, so I could clean myself off. I felt dusty as hell, and my joints were stiff, like I hadn't moved in quite some time. Bray, upon hearing that, said he understood completely, given that I'd been dead a thousand years.
"A thousand years, huh?" I asked, as I stripped off a black garment that I'd discovered had been covering my body. While the moths had had a feast, it was still intact enough, surprisingly, to be identifiable as an ornate funeral shroud. Pretty nice one, all things considered.
"Yes, milord Grogar," Bray continued, bowing every other sentence. The guy was clearly terrified of me, and based just on body language, it was obvious that something was very wrong, and that he was afraid of how I'd react when he told me what it was.
The bathing chamber we were in was a pretty clear sign of what was probably wrong: It was dusty, practically abandoned. The water pumps apparently still worked, which was why the swimming pool-sized bathing area was filled with warm water, but it was clear that no one had done any cleaning in a long time. I got the impression that no one was expecting me to come back anymore.
As I dipped myself into the warm, somewhat dirty water, I asked, "So... what is the state of my domain, Bray?" Best to get that out of the way, first. If I was having a dream, it might be entertaining to see how bad a situation my mind had cooked up for me. I have a very active imagination, after all.
Bray hemmed and hawed, which I'd never actually seen someone do before, so it took me a moment to recognize it for what it was, and then began to say, "Well, there's really nothing worth bringing to your atten..."
I cut him off, right there. "Bray," I stated, bluntly, "you can either tell me the truth now, or you can try to lie, and when I discover the truth, whatever punishment you're afraid of receiving will seem like the sweetest bliss in comparison to what I will do to you."
As threats go, I feel that was a very effective one, especially in the perfectly calm, almost conversational, tone I delivered it in.
Bray went very pale, an impressive feat for a donkey, and then hung his head, sadly, and admitted, "It has been awful, master. After your defeat, we reclaimed your remains from the battlefield, and then retreated here, to Tambelon. At first, we expected you to revive immediately, so we all waited with baited breath for your return. We soon discovered we could no longer leave this realm, after Tambelon was banished to the realm of shadows by the alicorns, your sworn enemies. But as weeks became moons, and moons became years, and years became centuries, your subjects, the Trogs, decided you were not coming back. Oh, some of them send a pittance of food, coin, and slaves to keep the palace maintained, but what we have is barely enough to keep the throne room clean, and see to the needs of the staff..."
I held up a hoof to stop Bray from going further. I had a feeling that, if allowed to, he'd go on for hours. "Remind me, Bray," I began, my voice calm, almost soothing, "Who did I leave in charge, should anything happen to me? Did I actually place you in charge of anything?" I had a suspicion, given Bray's behavior, that this 'Grogar' he thought I was, was some kind of tyrant. And tyrants, on the whole, have a very particular way of doing things.
"No one, milord," Bray responded, promptly, springing to full attention. "And no, I hold no real rank in Tambelon."
Of course: Leaving a second in command means you have someone prepared to stab you in the back and take power at their first opportunity. Classic Tyrant thinking. I inquired further, "And what of infrastructure? Command structure? Did I leave any instructions for how to maintain my domain, should I be away?"
"None, master," Bray answered, instantly.
Typical. Let me explain something to you all, here and now: Tyranny never works in the long term. Tyrants, those who take control of a region and rule with an iron dick-tatorship, are selfish individuals who only care about three things: Their own power, their own pleasure, and removing any and all threats to their reign. They don't establish an effective chain of command that will survive their own death. In fact, the typical tyrant will take great pains to keep his underlings at each other's throats, to keep them for trying for his own. Tyrants don't build infrastructure, since the money that would be used to do so would be better used filling the treasury, buying liquor, throwing soirees, and building a new seraglio to house an unreasonably large harem. Tyrants don't invest in their own domain that much, and if you want to build a kingdom that will last through the ages, you have to do just that.
Tyrannies tend to end with the death of the tyrant, even if it from was natural causes, for those very reasons. Mind you, you have a few enlightened tyrants here and there, who use tyrrany as a means to an end, but as Vlad 'The Impaler' could testify, even if your tyrrany brings about a golden age to your struggling little kingdom that was unmatched by anything in the past, and would remain unmatched centuries later, it ultimately falls apart in the end.
And yet, petty tyrants rise and fall anyways.
But enough of that for now.
"Given that," I stated, bluntly, "I did not make any contingencies for the event of my death, I would say that, given the circumstances, the fact that I have a palace at all is nothing short of miraculous. The fact that you have done as well as you have is admirable. You are to be rewarded... just as soon as I decide what an appropriate reward should be." Bray actually seemed to perk up at that. "But for now," I continued, "I'll need a bucket of clean water to finish washing off with, and a mirror. Hop to it."
I didn't need to tell Bray twice. As he rushed off, I briefly pondered what Grogar had done to win the loyalty of that donkey. A loyalty so strong it had literally lasted for a thousand years...
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It's official, I thought to myself as I examined my new body in the mirror, I'm a blue goat.
To be fair, I was an intimidating goat, with red eyes, pointy teeth, and horns typical of the Altai Mountain goat, which has some of the most impressively daunting horns of the species. Still, I was a goat, and by the sound of things, I was not just any goat, but Sauron in goat form.
I didn't mind dreaming that I was a goat, I hope you'll understand that. If there's one thing that Goat Simulator taught me, it's that goats are the shit. They rock, they rule, and they kick serious ass. They're also fucking metal: Name one real animal that appears on heavy metal album covers that is more awesome! Snakes? They're quadriplegic iguanas. Wolves? Seriously overrated, they're just wild dogs with an overinflated rep. Bats? Ozzy can bite the head off of one of those in one go. Goats would give him a much harder time. Besides, when you're rocking out, what are you throwing? The wolf? The snake? The bat? Hell no, you're throwing the goat. The prosecution rests, your honor. How do you find? On the charge of goats being metal as fuck, I find them guilty!
I'm going a little bit off the tracks, sorry. I do that, sometimes. Please forgive me.
It was simply a surprising transition, finding myself in a goat-body, instead of my human body. I normally don't dream I'm in an animal body. The last time I had, I'd dreamed I was a gorilla. Weird fucking dream, but let's not get side-tracked again. This was an abnormal dream, but to me, it wasn't quite that abnormal.
Still, as I looked myself over, I considered the possibility that I'd look even more hella-badass if I had a cape or something. Although, if I did have a wardrobe, it was almost certain to be in the same condition as that burial shroud I'd been wearing, if not worse. Still, I had the feeling that I'd be able to rock a three-piece suit so hard that it would rip a hole in the time-space continuum.
With a shrug, I turned from the mirror, and said, "Alright, so, I understand that there will be beer and pancakes."
"Of course, master," Bray said with a nod. "Right this way."
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You know, when I had said that I'd wanted twenty virgins to form a throne for me to sit on, I'd said it in the expectation that they'd be sexy ladies, not mares. However, even if the mares making up my throne had been humans instead, these would not have been attractive: These would not be the kind of girls that most guys envision when they picture slave girls, that being women in incredibly revealing clothing and possessing supple, appealing curves. These mares were very clearly undernourished, terribly fatigued, and had very obvious scars that, if I had to make a guess, were the kind where someone had taken a whip to them, and most assuredly not in the fun and/or kinky way.
A whip can do a lot of damage, as a dominatrix can tell you: It takes a lot of training to be able to use a whip in such a way that it doesn't scar the victim. A whip, properly utilized, will break the sound barrier during its travels, which is the source of that infamous cracking sound. A strike like that can strip flesh, sever fingers, and take out an eye. It could even disembowel, in the wrong hands. Whoever had been whipping these mares was no dominatrix: The scarring clearly indicated that while they'd taken pains to avoid the legs, face, or underbelly, they'd considered everything else fair game, and had whipped these mares viciously and without mercy for an extended period.
The only reason I didn't suplex Bray right through the dining table seated in front of my "throne" was the fact that these were scars: There was not a single one of those injuries that could possibly have been delivered within the last six months. Still, I was going to command, as soon as I felt it would be appropriate, that Bray not whip any of the slaves in the palace. Seriously, those mares hurt just to look at.
Looking at the slightly trembling throne, I stated with absolute honesty, "That does not look anywhere near as comfortable as I had envisioned. Still, a solid A for effort, ladies. Disentangle yourselves, and then bring me a chair, while I decide what to have you do next."
As the mares did as ordered, I looked over at the dining table. Or maybe I should say banquet table: This massive, oaken affair was obviously intended to seat dozens, if not hundreds, and was covered, end to end, with plates of steaming pancakes. Now, I will admit, I can eat pancakes like a motherfucker when I'm hungry, but this was just ri-ding-dong-dang-diculous. I'd said I had a mighty hunger, and Bray, along with the cooking staff, had taken me at my word. How the fuck they'd managed this many pancakes in half an hour was a miracle of logistics and the culinary arts.
Then again, you never knew what you were capable of until you had a gun to your head, they say, and having 'Grogar' command something seemed to be the equivalent of having a twelve-pounder cannon pointed directly at your face... and/or your nuts.
I'd need to remember my orders would have that kind of effect in this dream. While I'm certain it would seem amusing to tell someone here to 'Go Fuck Yourself', it would be rather horrifying to see how someone might try to accomplish it, when that heavily motivated.
"In fact," I added, after a moment's thought, "go ahead and take a few plates off of the other end, and eat. I don't think I can eat quite this many pancakes in one sitting, and I'd rather not see this all go to waste."
The mares, after a moment's hesitation, nodded and began to do so. I looked over to Bray, and asked, "Are you hungry?"
Bray shook his head, and said, "No, master, thank you for asking. I ate earlier."
"Good," I said, then turned my attention towards my breakfast of beer and pancakes, and began searching for the most crucial component, the one that would make this breakfast perfect... and found it missing.
"Bray, where is the maple syrup?"
Saddened, the donkey admitted, "There has not been a bottle of the syrup of maples in your palace in over three centuries, not since someone put it away without placing the cap back on the bottle. Ants got into it, and... we have yet to locate another bottle, and maples are not to be found in Tambelon, so we cannot make more."
Fuck a duck, I hate it when someone does that. I was horribly tempted to make that an offense punishable by death, but I decided to put that off until later.
In perfect seriousness, I told Bray, "Pancakes without maple syrup. My realm has truly fallen upon dark days, for such a thing to come to pass."
"I could not possibly agree more, master," Bray agreed immediately.