A weak knock on wood. Once, then twice. The hinges creaked. A man appeared from the waist up, legs still hidden behind the rich stained wood of the door. His eyes were cast down on the deep red carpet, scorched in places, revealing sooty, blackened stone beneath. He shook visibly, his mail chinking slightly at the movement.
"M-m-mi lord?"
He didn't know why they did this. His enemies he expected it from - they were, after all, his enemies, and they often did not leave his presence once it had been gained. They should be fearful of him. But he did not understand why his own servants quivered at the sight of him, refused to look him in the eye, and why their voice rattled in his presence. He did not intend to harm them. He loved his servants. Or he loved their loyalty, anyway.
"Enter, and speak what must be spoken." His voice, his thick, warm voice, rolled through the enormous room. It was soothing to listen to; calming. The servant took a step into the hall, leaving a dusty footprint behind him. The door closed behind him, creaking once more.
The servant swallowed.
"I have news, my lord." Good, the man had managed to keep his voice from quaking. So much more pleasant to listen to.
"Of?" The servant looked up from the floor, up to where his lord was, sitting straight-backed in a black stone throne, the orange glow of the enormous fireplace behind surrounding him in a great, golden aura. Again, the servant swallowed.
"It-it's not good news, my lord." A flicker of annoyance ran through the lord of the hall, and a cascade of sparks spewed forth from the fireplace, skittering across the floor.
"I await it nonetheless." The servant should know to just be out with it. And that damn stutter was back - it grated upon the ears.
"The- the-" The man paused, swallowed once more. The fire at the back of the room rose a little in volume, now a constant, heavy rumble
"Out with it." The servant swallowed yet again, and nodded.
"The prisoner that escaped, my lord. He- he-" Another damn pause, another damn swallow. A brief, intense flash from the fire.
"We did not catch him." Bright yellow light filled the room. The fire exploded outwards. Intense heat filled the room. The roaring of flames was deafening, but not so much as the voice of the lord of the hall.
"WHAT?" His voice was a physical force, and the man staggered back.
"I- We- He-" Then the lord was no longer in his throne, but right in front of the man. He burned, his entire body covered with writhing, twisting tongues of white, orange and yellow. Heat pushed outwards from him, and the carpet beneath his feet was burnt through instantly. The servant stumbled backwards, but before he could hit the ground, fingers as hot as hell itself gripped his neck and dragged him into the air. He could feel his skin melting, the blood underneath burning, his bones crumbling away.
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?" the lord of the hall screamed. He received no response, as all that remained before him was a pile of grey ash and molten mail. As if a switch had been flicked, all the burning in the room stopped. It was sudden cold, and dead quiet. The lord of the hall gazed solemnly at what was left of his servant, and he remembered why they feared him.
