The Thoughtless Rounder
I allow myself to be played a little bit. Just a little. It is it's own high. And of course it's all for the greater good.
For example, one day, the commander of the armies of the north chanced upon the tent where I was asleep and told me that there was nothing worse than a large white rabbit stew cooked by the cook that he had to consume in front of the entire army before the skirmish.
"'Tis torture! Absolute torture on the tongue! I must teach these vermin a lesson!!" The commander was a sissy, but I was one of his country's slaves. The last remaining of my kind, mind you.
When the commander finished his usual whine, he would play with me, with all the knobs and pulleys and levers.
Eventually, he'd get what he wants - he'd see what he wants, in fact and feel it and live it. His mind will see him distastefully spurn the rabbit stew at the cook and bark filthy insults at the gathered lieutenants and captains. It would see them get butchered by the slattern of war and eaten by vultures with pink eyes.
It was all in good fun because he would do no such thing. /I/ would do so, given the opportunity. But for now, I was the slut and this man demanded it as if it was his own right.
The old masters were usually better equipped with dealing with my kind. There were books and there were older masters. I remember my uncle telling me a story where a child asked him an inoccuous question after watching him paint a sky.
"Mmmaaa nice, so how do the stars reflect the Sun?" This was right after the laws were instated against us, so he was not in a telling mood. So he showed the child.
Incidentally, it so happened that the child was the only son of the king of the nation, so the prince becoming an incompetent mad man was big news.
Eventually, the old masters were deemed unworthy and put to death and so were we. I escaped in the custody of this commander roue as the travelling rake of his army. It's so funny because it's true. I cannot do anything that my kin could at one point of time. Tch.
I could try, however.
The night before the decisive final battle, the commander of the armies of the north came to my little cage and touched every part of the mechanism that hurt my corporeal form. He was raving. He needed my comforting touch and I needed something to alleviate the lasting boredom. He pulled at my collar and roughly kissed me like sloven and a half having his goddamn luncheon. He was screaming at my ears but my mind was already repeating his words at him.
"'Tis torture! Absolute torture on the tongue! I must teach this vermin a lesson!!" My thought coalesced into a corrupted version of what he usually saw. As I pushed it down his throat and up his mind, he saw everything that I wanted to see in reverse and saw my cold hard glare before I slit his throat. Ichor seeped through his chainmail and dripped across his pants. He was dying slowly and he was being shown all this from my perspective. Lots of mischief!
As he woke up and saw my toothy smile of coy mischief at his wet pants, he calmly stalked out and came back with his sword out of his scabbard.
"You will pay for that, vermin." He slit my throat. I knew he would. But the look in his eyes when I said "so will you" in the most cunningly contrived devil's tone was worth all the trouble.
I mean, what else is the point of all of this?