Rotneedle and the Demon King in New Throne

Deep in the Blighted Deadlands, past the jagged blood peaks of the Crimson Mountains, beyond the gaping, raw expanse of the Great Scar, the Obsidian Keep looms, and within its charnel-black walls, the Demon King holds court, sitting upon his throne of jagged bone and polished skulls.

“By the hells,” the Demon King grouses. “This is uncomfortable. Rotneedle!”

His goblin attendant scurries up, clad in a little butler’s outfit. “Yes Sire!”

“I demand a new throne. A profane perch that strikes terror in the heart of man—without terrorizing my ass.”

“Sire?”

“These skulls are rough on the cheeks. And a splinter of tibia keeps prodding my Darkhole.”

Rotneedle gasps. “My apologies, Sire!” He drops to his knees. “Such paltry accommodations for a prodigious posterior as nasty and nefarious as yours is unacceptable! Beyond the pale!” Rotneedle cranes his neck. “Feel free to take my head at once.”

“Enough.” The Demon King waves his hand. “There will be time for beheadings later.”

“If you say so, Sire.” Rotneedle eyes his dark lord uneasily, his raspy voicing carrying just a hint of disappointment.

“Fashion the new throne from the fat enemies,” the Demon King declares. “The Duke of Branthorpe, perhaps. He’s a wide one.”

“Sire, the Duke of Branthorpe surrendered nine months ago. He has bled his lands into famine to meet your mandated tribute.”

“And yet he remains rotund, a fattened swine ready to serve a higher purpose.”

“Sire, if I may?”

“Hm?”

“If we only use fat, any furniture the goresmiths fashion will lack the structural integrity necessary to stand.”

“Hm.”

“Ideal for a cushion or bed, of course, but hardly fit for a throne.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“Fat alone will not suffice, so I suggest we repurpose the bones on hand.” The goblin gestures to the throne. “And might I suggest some new upholstery. Imalian leather, perhaps?”

“Imalian leather.” The Demon king rubs his chin. “Sounds luxurious. But will it induce terror?”

“We’ll make the leather out of the skin of Imalian orphans, Sire.”

“Rotneedle!” The Demon King gasps. “That’s depraved!”

The goblin bows. “Thank you, Sire.”

“Commence the project at once.”

“Yes Sire.”

“Wait.” The Demon King holds up his palm. “You’re not going to use dirty, slum orphans, are you?”

“Sire!” Rotneedle bristles, distressed.

“Cause if I’m gonna be sitting on orphans, I’d rather they be upscale orphans…”

“Of course, Sire! Only the finest Imalian leather is fit to cradle my Lord’s cheeks! To think that I would-”

The Demon King chuckles. “Easy, Rotneedle.”

“It’s preposterous!”

“Across the vast expanse of my dominion, your loyalty and tireless dedication stand unrivaled, beyond question or reproach.”

“Thank you, Sire!” Rotneedle pounds his chest in salute. “On my honor, we will slaughter only the wealthiest parents of Imalia to source your leather.”

“Wonderful,” the Demon King chimes. “Oh and Rotneedle. About the Duke.”

“Yes Sire?”

“Make him a beanbag chair.” Ω