Scene III: The Spider and His Fly
The 1st Day of the 4th Moon, 1536 P.V.
Corax Asylum, Togaduine
Nicolas had been waiting patiently in his chambers for the return of Stacia, the first Immoless of the century, all day. She had escaped during a rather eventful night after Nicolas wilfully left her cell door open. His patience was wearing thin, so he penned an urgent letter to the Nicolai known as Chester, Nicolai-Chester, that read,
‘Ches,
Hoe number one has escaped. A free lick to anyone who can retrieve her. Give the third Immoless one from me,
Nicolas.’
Stacia was a blonde, plain sort of priestess, or rather, Immoless, with the personality of a turnip, and the intelligence to match. Nicolas had found her a little too whiny and rapidly became bored of taunting her cunt with hot irons as she was really no fun at all.
He allowed two of his Nicolai, namely Nicolai-Commodore Bigglesworth, the Purple Pirate of The Getsug Sea and Nicolai-Mr Dibble, a lion tamer from the made-up organisation The International Union of Circi of the DeSilva Group, who both resembled Nicolas with auburn-brown shaggy hair, piercing green eyes, a constant stubble and a mandatory dribble of blood about their chins, to waterboard Stacia for several hours.
They too grew bored with her whining. Screaming was one thing, but a monotonous whine proved quite irritating and did nothing for anyone’s libido.
Mr Dibble lost interest early on in the session and moved from the torture chambers to the cells to inflict his presence on a new tribute, a red-head named Ariadne. Mr Dibble was fascinated as to why Ariadne’s parents insisted on giving her a spider’s name, and it was something he raised whilst thrusting his cock into her from behind as she stood chained against the cell wall,
‘Madam,’ his deep, alpha voice growled, ‘I should like you to impart the history of your proper noun and its relation to the lineage of the arachnid community.’ Dibble was nothing if not romantic.
Ariadne, who was raised to serve, had not benefitted from any form of classical education. She was not even forced into The Deep’s diabolical thesapien education system. The range of her education consisted of basic language skills, classes in how to submit to the Immortalis, and lessons in dying with dignity, whilst, of course, pleasing the men. No one had discussed grammar or the history and culture of arachnids with her at any point in her short life.
Ariadne shrugged, whispering,
‘I don’t understand.’ This infuriated Mr Dibble forcing him to thrust harder, as it demonstrated yet again that the quality of tribute livestock was in massive decline. After a few minutes, and without blowing his load, he removed his cock and watched Ariadne tremble.
Mr Dibble adjusted his red and black top hat, and fiddled with its silver hanging embellishments and plumage, then prowled around his victim,
‘Your name, Madam, Ariadne. Is it not a spider’s name?’
Ariadne was not sure how to answer, so to prevent further irritation she simply replied,
‘Yes.’
This pleased Mr Dibble. ‘No’ was not a word recognised by the Nicolai.
Mr Dibble looked over the tribute. She was fairly clean, a sure sign that she was new, as Nicolas discouraged cleanliness in tributes. However, she wore a torn and bloodied white dress, and there were dried blood stains about her thighs and bite marks about her neck suggesting that Nicolas had eagerly taken the first serving.
The tributes were always damaged by the time the Nicolai took their turns. There was a clear hierarchy. Within that hierarchy Nicolas came first, second and third, literally, and as loudly as possible. In Nicolas’s mind this loud performance signalled some failing on the part of the older tributes who no longer made him cry out. This, he believed, caused the older tributes great jealousy. It did not. They were simply quite happy that someone else was suffering his attentions for a change.
Mr Dibble lifted and spun his cane. All of the Nicolai held a cane with a skull on the top, except for Nicolai-Demize who was only a head. Mr Dibble removed the cap at the base of the cane and used the blade that jutted out to rip Ariadne’s gown. To his great disappointment, Ariadne was not spider-like at all. She only had four limbs, and to make matters worse, she unequivocally refused to hide the fact that she only had two eyes. There were no fangs either.
Mr Dibble ripped the dress from her body and inspected her carefully, inside and out, for hidden clues of arachnitism. He even used a speculum, torch and eyepiece to ensure the search for signs of arachnitism extended to all sneaky orifices. There were no spider-like indicators, however she did have two beautiful supple breasts which he hoped to examine more closely.
Mr Dibble licked his lips and spun Ariadne around, breaking both chained arms with a loud crack. This caused a massive scene. Ariadne started screaming, and in response the other inmates began to cheer, roar or cry. This strengthened Mr Dibble’s resolve, among other things, and, without hesitation, he pushed her back up against the wall and entered her without mercy.
Ariadne was not a virgin, not anymore. Mr Dibble presumed that her insides were most likely filled with salty residue as Nicolas had made such a show of his interaction with Ariadne earlier in the night that the whole asylum were privy to the noise.
Once Nicolas had finished, Chester quickly followed, and shamed Ariadne with his wily tongue, and prolific flute before going about his business. Chester and Ariadne enjoyed the coupling so much and were both moaning so loudly that they barely noticed Chives, Nicolas’s skeletal henchman, changing the sheets during their interaction. Chives replaced the filthy sheets with filthier sheets as only Nicolas was privileged with some level of hygiene. Not much, as he was not a fan of it, but more than the Nicolai or the tributes ever received.
Unlike Nicolas and Chester, Mr Dibble had nothing to prove. He was just there for a quick snack. He drove in and out of Ariadne at speed, whilst she continued to complain about her arms. This only progressed his excitement, and he came quickly. As he came his fangs sunk into her shoulder. The blood poured freely, so he lapped at it, before biting into her mouth and cheek, tearing out a few hearty chunks of flesh.
The Nicolai were not concerned about the presentation of used tributes; their only concern was feeding their own needs. A hole in the cheek or a missing lip made no difference to the overall experience. If anything, it heightened their arousal. Ariadne proved highly unsatisfying to Mr Dibble, having no arachnid qualities, proving to be as thick as a plank, and expressing herself through the most dreadful, grating squeals. All in all, the experience was a disappointment.
Bigglesworth was not having much luck either. Stacia’s noisy whines grew highly irritating, forcing poor Bigglesworth to leave longer and longer gaps between her drowning and him reviving her. Eventually he untied her and dragged her back down the stairs, by her hair, to her cell. Stacia’s cell was a few cells along from Ariadne’s cage. On arrival, Bigglesworth quickly threw Stacia in and double locked the door.
Both Bigglesworth and Mr Dibble retired to the south wing for the night, leaving Nicolas to roam the halls in an acute state of boredom.
The sobs of Stacia and the cries of Ariadne intercepted his path. Nicolas halted his rhythmic pace, his long ears twitched and a smile scarred his blood-soaked lips. He stopped in front of a mirror and adjusted his orange and green lounge suit, which had not one day prior been torn by an ungrateful tribute, and glared at his magnificent reflection.
Nicolas’s eyes flashed from green to brown, then back again. Then one turned blue, wandered around for a while, slithered into his head and returned to its original position quite green. Nicolas adjusted his tall top hat so that his long greasy hair clung about his slimy neck. A few flies formed a buzzing fan club about his being. He did not waft them away since they often paid him a visit.
Nicolas then moved closer to the mirror, tilting his head from one side to the other as his eyes rolled up and down. Once satisfied with his appearance, he danced from the entrance hall of the asylum to the cells.
The cells were housed on the ground floor, and the tributes allocated cages according to preference. Nicolas’s favourites were placed closest to the entrance hall and his office. This made life easier for Nicolas and gave the Nicolai a clear architectural layout of tribute hierarchy. The basement, for want of a better word, housed the dungeons where the vampires were kept. Nicolas liked to believe that the dungeons were a worse option than the cells, but the two prisons were just as revolting as each other.
All cages, whether cells or dungeons, comprised of filthy walls, an excess of damp and mould, chains and cuffs, a bed with blood-soaked, and otherwise soiled sheets, facilities tucked away behind a partition so Nicolas did not have to look at them, and an unusual flooring system laden with dubious wooden planks, pipes for sole burning and bare wires for electrocution purposes.
The generosity of providing a bed was for Nicolas’s comfort, and the straps and handcuffs were to ensure his prey did not ruin his indulgences by fidgeting, squirming and generally complaining. He even had gags on standby for the more vocal tributes and any inmates who objected to his passions. Nicolas did not care whether they objected or not but did not want the bother of fighting for what was his ordained right as an Immortalis.
Nicolas danced to Ariadne’s cell first. She had proven quite entertaining earlier in the night, so he could not fathom what she was carrying on about. He did not ask her either, largely because he did not care. He danced outside of her cell for a few minutes, then scraped his cane up and down the bars. Ariadne paid him no attention. She had not been in Corax long enough to understand the etiquette expected by Nicolas, and the other inmates did not warn her as it amused them to see newbies get a good beating.
Nicolas attempted to seduce her with his strange and largely uncoordinated dance again. His gangly legs jolted up and down, and his arms twisted into eerie theatrical contortions. Still Ariadne was unmoved.
Nicolas stopped dancing and shoved his face between two of the bars,
‘What ails you, Madam?’ Nicolas asked.
Ariadne shook her head, and twisted her arms against the chains, which only caused further discomfort. She winced and sniffed. Nicolas grew impatient,
‘I said what is wrong?’
Ariadne pursed her lips, then sobbed,
‘My arms.’
Nicolas widened his eyes and lowered his chin,
‘Is it… Very painful?’ He smiled.
Ariadne nodded. Nicolas pushed himself away from the bars, positively glowing,
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ His smile drifted into a smirk, ‘I have just the thing… CHIVES! CHIVES!’ His bellowing perforated the entire wing. Chives rapidly hobbled to him from the darkness at the far end of the corridor,
‘You muttered something, Sir?’
Nicolas skipped about in a circle,
‘Yes Chives, get me a chair. Our fine tribute is in pain and needs diagnosis and treatment immediately.’
With that, Nicolas danced back up the corridor and disappeared. Chives hobbled after him.
The tributes, like the immolesses, were largely ill-prepared for any interaction with the Immortalis. An agreement had been made after The War Before the Dusk, between the Electi, the DarkBadb, and the local lords, that any preparation or honest information about the Immortalis and their antics may cause upset among the prey, or risk the sort of exposure that no bureaucracy wants.
It was agreed that talk of torture, death, cannibalism, and the like may result in civil unrest. No party wanted that as it would impact taxation and spending. As such, neither the tributes nor the immolesses were told of the true horrors that awaited them. Instead, the Immortalis were depicted as brooding, darkly seductive vampires, and their habits highly romanticised as a sensual ritual. Unlike the tributes, the immolesses were aware that no one survived the Immortalis giving a more grounded understanding of the death cult that they had been born into. This dashed their hopes. However, the tributes arrived living in dreamland. This suited Nicolas as it made their suffering all the more entertaining.
Chives returned with a chair. It was more a throne than a chair. A magnificent creature carved from the finest Ashurrel oak and painted in yellow and black plaid. To the average person it would perhaps be deemed tacky, but to Nicolas it was a reminder of how important he was.
Nicolas arrived soon after Chives. He was no longer dancing but marching with an air of professional arrogance. A pair of round spectacles sat atop his nose, and he carried a large book, quill and inkpot. Chives placed yellow and black cushions on his chair and even pulled it out for Nicolas for no reason in the world.
Nicolas sat down, rested his utensils on the arm of the chair, and made a huge gesture of wriggling, clasping and cracking his fingers,
‘Shall we begin?’
Ariadne had no idea what was happening but nodded in the hope that he may attend to the raw throbbing sensation stifling both of her arms and causing a sickness in her belly.
Nicolas opened the book and placed it on his lap. He dipped the quill into the dark red ink, forced a cough, and then presented the first question,
‘What is your name?’
‘Ariadne,’ Ariadne answered, knowing that Nicolas knew her name full well as he had placed a name holder card on her cell door for the Nicolai.
Nicolas peered over his glasses,
‘And your surname?’
‘I don’t know what that is.’ Ariadne replied.
Nicolas tutted,
‘Chives, fetch another chair, and send for Dr Von Riesigerschwanz.’
Chives nodded, causing his skeletal neck to crunch and crack,
‘Very good, Sir.’
‘And don’t pretend you can’t see Dr Dick. If you are in that sort of a mood, get the porters to send for him.’
‘As you say, Sir!’ Chives replied, then limped back towards the main hall.
Nicolas looked down at his book and began to write whilst muttering just loud enough for Ariadne to hear,
‘Does not know who she is.’
‘I do know who I am,’ Ariadne argued.
Nicolas shook his head and continued to scribe,
‘Argumentative.’
The red head in the next cell, who, according to her name label, was known as Zena, sniggered. Nicolas dropped his gaze and looked over his glasses at her,
‘Do you want to be next?’
Zena shook her head and retreated from the bars.
‘I thought not!’ Nicolas snorted, then returned to his diagnosis, ‘Now. Who did this to you?’
Ariadne hesitated forcing Nicolas to command her to speak. This annoyed him,
‘Speak up, woman!’
‘You did, Sir.’
Nicolas’s lower jaw dropped, and he shook his head,
‘Me? Me? Madam, I have done no such thing. I visited you earlier. I was courteous. We had some fun, but I never broke your arms.’
‘Are they broken?’ Ariadne asked in panic, then the tears came. Nicolas hated tears,
‘No, we are not starting that. Let’s stick to the facts, no amateur dramatics and no waterworks. Let’s try again. Who did this to you?’
Ariadne trembled and shivered.
‘Today please!’ Nicolas snapped, as his patience thinned.
‘You, Sir.’
‘And how was I dressed?’
‘Like a ringmaster, Sir.’
Nicolas let out a low laugh, then drew his attention back to his book,
‘Delusions.’ He looked up at her slowly, his eyes practically glowing, ‘And possible hallucinations.’
Nicolas’s train of thought was interrupted by Chives heaving another chair up the corridor accompanied by the clicking of Nicolai-Dr Riesigerschwanz’s boots. Dr Riesigerschwanz, a prolific psychiatrist, psychoanalyst and writer, was well-known throughout The Deep for his revered work on the power of masculinity. He had several best-sellers including 1000 Uses for Cucumbers you Never Thought of, Bringing Back Masculinity, The Art of Feminine Surrender, and Nicolas’s favourite, Why Everything is About Dick. The latter book had an ethos and philosophy that suited Nicolas, and he ensured that every household in The Deep purchased a copy. It was not optional.
Ariadne looked from Nicolas to Dr Riesigerschwanz and back again. But for Dr Riesigerschwanz’s thick black facial hair, she would not have been able to tell them apart,
‘Are you twins?’ She asked.
Nicolas and Dr Riesigerschwanz exchanged amused glances, and Nicolas added another symptom to his list,
‘Struggles to mind her own business.’ Nicolas then handed his notes to his colleague.
Dr Riesigerschwanz browsed through the short list several times tutting and pulling at his beard,
‘A terminal case I am afraid.’
‘I concur,’ Nicolas nodded.
Ariadne struggled against her chains. Her skin caught in the metal, and she let out a shriek.
‘Add, makes an unnecessary amount of noise,’ Dr Riesigerschwanz laughed handing the notes back to Nicolas, ‘and then the honours are all yours, Nicolas.’
Nicolas scribbled down the final symptom in almost illegible writing. The medical training that he had never had, taught him that symptoms must be written in poor script or else patients would be concerned that he was not a doctor. Which he was not. Not in any meaningful sense of the word. Further, patients might assume the right to access their own notes, which was entirely out of the question.
The doctors of Corax, who had never been to university, Nicolas, Dr Nicodemus, Dr Smythe and Dr Riesigerschwanz had all acquired their qualifications through Irkallan deals. In the early days, around 317 P.V., Nurse Needy, a matron serving at the Ashurrel hospital was approached by Dr Smythe who was looking for work as a locum. Nurse Needy asked Dr Smythe to verify his qualifications and prove that he was a doctor. Apparently, the white coat was not enough.
Nicolas was most upset for poor Dr Smythe and decreed that asking anyone who considered themselves a doctor or surgeon for evidence was offensive. Offending people, according to Irkallan law, was punishable by death. Fraud and manslaughter only attracted fines, so the medical board no longer stipulated proof of qualification as a requirement for any given position.
At first this created a problem. Some nosey thesapien nurses pointed out that the rate of mortality was increasing on account of rogue doctors. These comments offended the medical board. The nursing staff making the comments were offended by the offense taken by the medical board. Patients then claimed they were offended when receiving the wrong medication, and the doctors were offended by the patients’ offense, so the patients wrote to the medical board who were offended further.
Everyone was so busy being offended that no one noticed that the DeSilva Group had purchased chairs on the medical board and medical care costs grew by four hundred percent. Anyone who did notice opted not to mention it as no one EVER wanted to offend Nicolas.
Nicolas finished scribbling, raised his eyebrows and smiled a toothy unhinged grin as Ariadne continued to sob in response to the pain. Nicolas winked,
‘Now for the best part,’ the quill returned to the parchment, and he wrote his diagnosis as he spoke, and he spoke slowly and deliberately,
‘Ariadne Without a Surname…
‘Yes?’
‘I.
Declare.
You.
Insane.’
Ariadne let out a nervous laugh,
‘What does that mean?’
‘She’s a feisty one,’ Dr Riesigerschwanz noted, ‘she needs a permanent correction.’
‘What does THAT mean?’ Ariadne asked again.
‘Will you shut up?!’ Nicolas barked, ‘Medics talking, not peasants.’
Nicolas put the feather of the quill to his lips. His eyes whitened momentarily, returned to normal and then jarred in an upwards position,
‘I have it!’ Nicolas shouted, after an awkward and prolonged silence, ‘A combination of the iron chair and the tickler.’
‘Excellent choice!’ Dr Riesigerschwanz nodded and shook Nicolas’s hand.
Ariadne’s body shuddered,
‘What are you going to do to me?’
Nicolas bit his lip until it bled,
‘Cut out your tongue if you speak again!’
Dr Riesigerschwanz rose from his chair,
‘Perhaps a dual experience. Zena and I have a date, I think.’
Zena let out a screech and hid under her blankets, as if the Nicolai would not be able to find her. Dr Riesigerschwanz laughed,
‘Odd sort of behaviour. Do you concur Nicolas?’
‘Indeed, I do!’ Nicolas replied, ‘Zena, for mistaking a sheet for a safehouse I have no choice but to say, I declare you insane also.’
Dr Riesigerschwanz pulled open his jacket and lifted out a four-pronged iron with bladed hooks at each terminus,
‘The breast ripper,’ he smiled, ‘quite a divine instrument.’
Zena stifled her sobs, knowing that any reaction only encouraged the Nicolai.
Nicolas drew a master key from his own pocket, unlocked Ariadne’s door and chains, and dragged her by her arms from the cell causing a low guttural scream.
Both men removed their pocket watches from the inside of their jackets.
‘Shall we say, ten minutes?’ Nicolas asked.
Dr Riesigerschwanz nodded,
‘No need to hang around!’
‘I agree,’ Nicolas grinned, then turned to Stacia who was sobbing in the third cell, ‘I shall be attending on you in fifteen minutes, try to look presentable.’
Stacia was not sure how she was meant to look presentable and then wondered why she was even troubling herself to think about it at all.
Dr Riesigerschwanz entered Zena’s cell and entered her almost as quickly.
Nicolas had a little further to go. He unceremoniously dragged Ariadne through the corridor and up the main stairs to the corrective facilities.
As they moved along the upper corridor passing the various torture chambers, Nicolas shifted from side to side shouting the door numbers,
‘Door number one. Door number two. Door number three. Door number four. Door number five,’ he stopped and pushed his face uncomfortably close to Ariadne’s, ‘what do you suppose is behind door number six?’
Ariadne shook her head. Her body froze, and little pimples formed everywhere.
Nicolas’s gaze locked on her cold breasts. His lower incisors dug into his upper lip. His eyes shifted from side to side. Suddenly and without warning he bit into her left nipple and lapped at the warm juice that flowed from within.
His feed was interrupted by the notable sensation of Dr Riesigerschwanz accelerating his trajectory faster than planned. The psychiatrist had inadvertently over-excited himself by edging, withdrawing, and using the breast ripper to its full advantage.
Nicolai-Webster had devised an internal heating element for the breast ripper that enabled the user to burn, tear and cauterise all in one fell swoop.
Dr Riesigerschwanz had applied the ripper to Zena’s left breast digging the bladed and barbed, scorching prongs into Zena’s flesh. The mechanism closed. It turned, it tore the breast away perfectly, then the hot iron was applied again to prevent excessive bleeding. The left breast was discarded on the cell floor.
The good doctor repeated the operation with the right breast, rolling his eyes, and bringing his need to a near crescendo as Zena howled the asylum down. The right breast was discarded too, a gift for Nicolas when he was ready to feast upon it. Dr Riesigerschwanz knew from Nicolas’s therapy sessions that Nicolas appreciated the offerings of the Nicolai.
In a desperate state of over-stimulation, the psychiatrist re-entered Zena and made every effort to slow his pace. Synchronicity was essential to Nicolas’s satisfaction.
The synchronisation of the Nicolai was more art than science.
During Nicolas’s first century above ground, in 47 A.V. when Nicolas was first adapting to the corporeal, psycho-sexual link between himself and his other good selves, there had been several, notable, embarrassments. Nicolas had not learned to switch off and control himself at that point, nor to control his own responses to what the Nicolai were indulging in. To be blunt, when one of the Nicolai was heavily engaging a tribute in matters of the libido, Nicolas’s own body would forget itself, causing a momentous sensation, followed by a great emission in his own trousers.
This was all well and good in private, but one particular occasion brought the matter to a head, and a plan built on self-control, synchronicity, and pocket watches was developed.
During the overwhelmingly hot summer of 47 A.V. Nicolas’s brother, the regal, suave, and slightly stupid Theaten, had condescended to visit Nicolas at his then ziggurat home in Neferaten to complain about someone cranking up the heating systems in the already run-down Ashurrel hospital, south of Sapari. Nicolas had no idea why this was his problem, but Theaten’s pompous friend Roger, later known as Count Tepes, had received several complaints from the administration staff at the hospital, and had forwarded these, via raven, to Theaten. Theaten, for some reason, blamed our hero, Nicolas, and spent the morning in his ziggurat whining about it.
It just so happened that at the same time, Nicolas’s Nicolai, Nicodemus, a renowned medic practising the art of female anatomical response, had declared a red-haired potter living in Threnodyl as insane and was rutting her like a stud bull in the Threnodyl nature reserve.
It was difficult for Nicolas to manage the perceptions of all the Nicolai at once as, in his head, the noise often collapsed into a monotonous drone.
Just as Theaten had finished his tedious speech on civil relations, both Nicodemus and Nicolas exploded simultaneously.
It was by no means a small explosion, as Nicodemus had over-excited himself with oral foreplay and delays. It was quite a magnificent and volcanic show.
Nicolas was mortified, at first. Theaten was even more mortified and took to staring with a half frown riddled in disgust at his brother. On the plus side the problems at the Ashurrel hospital were never mentioned again. Nor was Theaten’s impromptu visit that day.
Nicolas dragged his teeth from Ariadne’s breast, tearing a chunk off in unison with Dr Riesigerschwanz who was using his talons to claw at Zena’s fresh wounds. Ariadne was dragged quickly into the torture chamber, and, without any foreplay, Nicolas pulled a hooked, iron claw from the wall, splatted Ariadne down in the spiked chair, which she did not particularly like, and flayed the remainder of her breasts at great speed.
Ariadne’s initial screams softened into shock-laden whimpers. Nicolas cursed under his breath as his colleague downstairs was being a little too quick for Nicolas’s liking again. He pulled Ariadne from the chair, tearing her buttocks open in the process, and threw her face down on the floor. Nicolas shoved himself in with absolutely no elegance, and pulled her up onto all fours, licking the blood from her derriere.
Bits of flesh hung from her breasts and buttocks, which gave Nicolas the momentum he needed to catch up with Dr Riesigerschwanz. Once the two were in pure tandem, Nicolas calmed and relished the build-up. The tribute had clearly been fed on red meat, which was most satisfying and tasty. His stomach throbbed. The sensation about his person spread. His fingernails warped into black talons. Nicolas dug these into her flesh, clawing like a wild beast as he thumped in and out of her.
Then came the payoff. Both gentlemen peaked in throbbing ecstasy simultaneously, the double orgasm rocking Nicolas so much so that he yelled out his own name, which some people considered strange.
Once the moment had subsided, he dumped Ariadne back on the chair and summoned Chives. Nicolas had read about aftercare in Carmilla Fanu’s great dark romance novels but considered it a waste of his time and energy. He saw no rationale for after-play since he had already received the satisfaction he craved.
Chives did not arrive before Nicolas had finished shouting, so the shouting continued,
‘Chives! Chives! Chives!’
The door handle eventually turned, and Chives peered into the corrective facility,
‘Yes Sir?’
‘I should like to serve cluster two with this tribute.’
Nicolas organised the Nicolai into clusters, sometimes called hordes depending on his frame of mind, for feeding purposes, so that the chef, Nicolai-Meatcleaver Pierre, also a Nicolai, was not overwhelmed.
‘Add honey, balsamic dressing and custard, and have her cooked on a skillet so that she is still alive when they are seated.’
‘Very good Sir.’ Chives sighed, ‘Will there be anything else?’
‘Like what?’ Nicolas asked.
‘Anything else at all?’
‘Such as?’
Chives did not know how to answer, and elected to end the conversation,
‘I shall have her prepared immediately.’
‘Oh, and Chives,’ Nicolas muttered.
‘Yes Sir?’
‘Put on a tuxedo, you don’t look very butlery anymore. Not in those rags. I suspect we shall have a very important visitor arriving in due course, and she doesn’t want to be welcomed by some rag and bone ghoul.’
Chives almost smiled,
‘Does Sir have a lady friend?’
Nicolas smiled back,
‘Sir most certainly does.’
Chives grunted hesitantly,
‘Does the lady concerned know that she is your lady friend?’
Nicolas’s eyes narrowed,
‘Know in what way?’
‘Know about it in the way of perhaps being aware that you are a couple? We have had this issue before Sir, and it never ends well.’
It was true, poor Nicolas had had some troubles in the past with lady friends and had never had what one might call a long-term relationship on account of the ladies of The Deep being wholly unkind to him. They were not unkind to Theaten, and no one turned Chester and his tongue away, but to Nicolas they were extremely cruel.
Nicolas spent the first two centuries after The War Before the Dusk perfecting his courtship ritual in the mirror of his bed chamber. He even allowed two of his Nicolai; Demize and Webster (who we shall meet in due course) to give feedback, feedback that was a little overly critical, and as such ignored on account of their obvious jealousy.
Nicolas decided to put his courtship strategy into practice in 247 P.V.
The winter had been harsh in Togaduine, and, out of the goodness of his heart, Nicolas went door to door to ask how the ladies were fairing. A lot of the older and more experienced ladies shooed him away with their brooms. Nicolas despised brooms, as they were the only weapon known to ward off Nicolai nonsense. However, at length he came across a rather attractive fishwife with beautiful auburn locks that hung in curls about her apron. Her name was Marcia and she worked at the Togaduine markets. Nicolas decided himself to be in love and set to putting his plan into action.
He attended the market on the cold morning of the sixth day of the twelfth moon in his finest yellow and blue suit. He even added a significant amount of feathers to the suit that Demize said made him look like a duck. Chives brought a folding chair that matched his suit and set it up next to her stall. Nicolas placed himself in the chair and sat perfectly still staring at her all morning.
Initially Marcia ignored him, but after a while she approached, asking him to leave. Nicolas took such communication as an obvious come-on. In response, he rose from his chair and vomited thick red blood all over her, then, whilst she was dumbfounded with adoration, he declared that he rather liked the smell of fish and could smell the enticing odour of fish coming from her body. Nicolas even wondered, quite loudly, if he could discover if that smell affected her more intimate regions.
Marcia was not as open to the relationship suggestion that followed as one might suspect.
Words were exchanged and voices raised. During the tussle, Marcia fell and impaled herself on the beak of a swordfish. Nicolas was devastated by such a horrific turn of events, but the third cluster did partake in a pleasing and hearty fishwife roast that very evening.
The management of the fishmongers complained to Tepes, who complained to Theaten, who wrote to Nicolas. Nicolas wrote back saying that he had not been in the Togaduine market that day on account of an influx of salamander worrying the asylum. Theaten did not follow up with a visit due to a problematic issue of his own concerning his favourite tribute, Calista, who had run away yet again. Something else that Theaten suspected Nicolas was responsible for, but he could not prove it.
Nicolas considered Chives’s question,
‘Chives, no our bride does not know! It is not a big deal,’ he barked.
‘Bride, Sir?’ Chives remarked. Chives’s cynicism always put Nicolas in a foul mood, but he did elaborate more for his own benefit than for Chives’s peace of mind.
‘She does not know because I wish to surprise her with my illustrious presence. She will be overwhelmed by my magnificent superiority, fall to her knees and agree to accept my hand in marriage, whilst calling me master and declaring her undying love for me.’
Chives sighed,
‘If you say so, Sir.’
‘Now, if you can stop wasting my time, I have the first and second Immolesses to deal with so I can marry MY Immoless.’
Chives, who was scooping up Ariadne, stopped in his tracks,
‘Sir, you are not considering courting the third Immoless?’
‘I most certainly am. I have given it much thought, and I believe that she will prefer my company to death. Preparations have begun, she has been dating Chester for some five years and the Nicolai are buzzing about her now. Check my roster and diaries, and you shall see everything is perfectly arranged and above board.’
‘But Sir…’
‘Yes, the idea is genius. I am glad I thought of it, now go about your business.’
‘But sir…’
‘I said NOW!’ Nicolas roared in three voices. Chives decided to let Nicolas at whatever the hell he thought he was doing and watched as Nicolas skipped off out of the room.
By the time Nicolas returned to the cells, Dr Riesigerschwanz had vanished, as had the thrones. Nicolas, still animated, skipped up to Stacia’s bars,
‘I was thinking, I am feeling most charitable, so I shall allow you to leave, and go wherever you wish.’
Stacia shook her head.
‘Yes,’ Nicolas continued, ‘you can leave. I will prove it.’ He pulled out his master key and unlocked her cage, ‘Off you go!’
Stacia shifted uncomfortably, but Nicolas persisted, he held open the door with a wide smile, ‘Go. You are free.’
Stacia fidgeted but made no attempt to escape agitating Nicolas,
‘GO NOW BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND!’ Two voices bellowed.
Stacia drew in her breath, edged past Nicolas, who remained perfectly still whilst grinning like a lunatic, then bolted up the corridor and out of the front door.
It amused Nicolas that Stacia fell for his obvious and impending betrayal so easily, especially as the immortals of The Deep had a long history of devious behaviour.