It burned, the weight of the world. How mortals survived, how they could bear the limitations of solid forms, the Darkness could never know. He'd had the throne (a massive block of asymmetrical, jagged obsidian) constructed to bear his burden, and now it had become a symbol of his power. Oh, the beings on this wretched mistake of life that would slaughter their kin for the sake of a chance to sit where Xanethus sat. To hold the power he held. But they never could. "Vizier..." The voice was a rasp and a boom at the same time. The hunched, horned form next to him practically jumped out of his seat. "Y-yes my lord?" The skeleton lifted a hand. "They've sent their Avatar." "M-m-my master? Already?" The skeletal form shifted, its head cocked to the side. "Need I repeat myself, Vizier? Do you call me a liar?" "N-n-n-no, your...." The body raised a hand, leaving the demon with his mouth hanging open. "Do not stutter, Vizier. I cannot stand stuttering." The Vizier gulped and continued. "Yes, Majesty. I could not possibly consider you a liar. But, I merely wonder. Why send their Avatar now, and not before, when you were at your weakest?" The skeleton leaped out of his seat, kicking the demon to the floor, and lowering the blade of his massive scythe to his throat. "YOU DARE CALL ME WEAK!? WRETCHED CHILD!" He promptly beheaded the demon, who dissolved into a viscous, black fluid. Standing, Xanethus turned to the court of demons, undead, and general monsters, now leaning on his scythe like a cane. "It has come to my attention that my Vizier has recently joined the dead. I am in need of a replacement." The beings in the room cringed. The fourteenth this month. Xanethus scanned the crowd with his hollow sockets. "You. Elfling. Your name?"