Part XI: N'gflan

After the last Merchant King ,Xeec'a, of the last dynasty perished much of the known world descended into turmoil. One of the darkest atrocities of this era were the char spires of Dinasheralvikan. The city of the incestuous demi-daemon king brothers N'gflan and N'gfur.

Eel ink broth only holds it flavor when it is hot enough to seer the tongue. This bowl was slightly feverish yet not blistering. N'gflan turned it counterclockwise slowly stopping at short intervals. Dinasheralvikan was no more yet he longed for the days of its glory where he could indulge in his various pastimes; raping the minds of the populace with existential horrors, concertos of the pain surgeons orchestras, intricate lies that caused people to fight and kill one another. The heavy velvet curtains held out the monsoon winds allowing in just a whistle. A shrill note that skimmed the stubble on his face. A note that his small second mouth on the right side of his neck sought to emulate. He pulled his scarf closer to muzzle that mouth. His garments already gave him away as royalty yet he wasn't ready to allow the people to know that it was a lurid lineage as of yet. He didn't want them to know that there was a crack in the gates of Szda that allowed him to walk the plains again. Also, he had not found N'gfur after he had seeped through the crack in the tomb.

Zhonau twittered in N'gflan's heart cage. N'gflan had no heart. Where his heart should've been was a gaping hole that was exposed on the front of his chest. A hole lined with ochre slime dripping audibly. Yet in that cavity lived Zhonau, his small white salamander familiar. N'gflan drew his vestments close. He did not want Zhonau revealed. Tiny fangs still pressed against his robe.

Yes, the robe was slightly ostentatious. The auric under robe sealing his whole body falling all the way to just above his ankles. The red coat vest which draped to just above his knees, the color of a virgins first menstrual blood. He wanted them to know who he was yet he didn't want them to KNOW who he was.

The inn keeper gave him a private table on the second level overlooking the dinning room. A table girl came to check on him and his meal.

"How is the eel ink broth?"

Her hair was quite matted, dirty lemon, no doubt somewhere in her line was P'lonian stock. Her hair clashing with her olive skin. N'gflan wondered how she had gotten a position in this inn. It appeared way above her class.

"I'm sorry dear, come closer. I can hardly hear you."

On her breath lurked anchovy oil. She was quite repulsive yet unusually unique. She had an odd alien quirkiness that N'glan was sure some translated as beauty. No doubt the inn keeper used her as his evening wench long after his wife had turned in.

N'gflan pulled back his scarf just enough so that his second mouth could whisper obscenities into the air. They scrapped her ear drum meshing with the squeaking of Zhonau. They provided the background music for N'gflan to speak. The table girl's eyes grew glassy. She bent down closer so that she could hear him. He guided her right hand to his phallus. He wanted her to feel it grow in her hand. She suppressed a gasp yet could not remove herself. He guided her left hand to lay on the table net to the bowl.

"Feel it," he uttered. From his sleeve he pulled out a small bone dagger that he started to lightly tap against her left hand. She felt him growing in her right and dug her fingers deeper to help it along. She knew not why she did this.

"Dear." He ran the knife against her index finger. "The Eel ink broth is not hot enough." The knife dug deep causing a thin blood tributary to emerge from her finger. He pushed the knife deeper. He grew larger in her hand. He dipped her severed finger in his broth and sipped deeply. It was almost as if that broth traveled straight down to that member that was in her right hand. And she uttered not a sound.

N'gflan knew it was now time to leave. His predilections had gotten the best of him. The table girl would be found sobbing in some corner with his seed staining her hand and a severed finger. She would be be hysterical because no matter how much she searched her thoughts she wouldn't know what happened or transpired. He calmly dove out into the monsoon shushing Zhonau with forgotten Barian limericks.