Hello, old friend.
Do not presume to tell me that you do not recognize me. Look past this mortal form I have taken. Look into my all-seeing eyes.
Yes, my friend. It is I. Llanwyn the Unforgiving. Lord of the Plains of Fire. Undisputed commander of the Legions of Onyx.
No, I don’t want any of whatever hot flavored beverage this establishment serves.
Do you remember when last we met? Of course you do. We struggled on the edge of the Cliffs of Exidor. Your Wolf Army scattered my Legion, and we were alone, locked in single combat. You were the stronger that day, and you banished me to the Abyss of the Souls.
Do you know the years that I spent there? Do you know of the torment I experienced? Do you understand that I spent every moment cursing your name and waiting for the moment when I could escape and wreak my terrible vengeance upon you?
Yes, I know there are people behind me in line. I care nothing for them. Let them wait, as I waited for millennium after millennium.
Once I made my escape, I tracked you from one corner of this plane of existence to another. I thought I had you on the Outer Rings of Thanatos-Seven, but you slipped away from me again. But I have found you at last. And by the Seven Stones of the Cytherians, I will have my satisfaction. I will take back what has been owed to me.
I may not have the power I had when last we met. The force of my laughter may no longer shatter plate armor. This weak mortal body can no longer withstand the inner fire that I once blasted from my fingertips to roast my enemies. But these limitations are nothing compared to my desire for ultimate retribution.
I cannot be placated by your selection of scones and muffins.
How, then, shall I make you suffer as I have suffered? Shall I whip the living flesh from your bones? Shall I make the blood run in your veins like living acid? Shall I call forth a host of my termite servants and have them infest your every orifice?
That, old friend, would be too easy. I have a different fate in mind for you. Revenge, as they say on this planet, is a dish best served cold. I will take my time. I will consider the most appropriate and thorough manner for working out my wrath. Perhaps—perhaps, I will allow you to live, but as a slave, as a lowly thrall in my service. Perhaps I will make you my cupbearer. That would be a delicious irony indeed.
Of course.
I have reconsidered. You will make me one of your lowly beverages. Yes. I will have the skinny caramel macchiato. Take care in its making, old friend. Be sure that the water in which the beans are infused is at an adequate temperature.
I rejoice in your humiliation! Ha! HA HA HA HA HA! Oh, sweet vengeance!