Yeti ruler of Lennith, your only prerogative is to protect your citizens from the ever-leeching caustic mire of Sprixie denizens. When power is not enough, only a sacrifice of life will satiate and destroy their collective stomach. A ritual carving is to be used only in this instance, as no intelligent creature should become an indentured companion. Bapheuftamist caught himself reading a very specific plaque on the right-hand side wall. It told of one particular law that caused him to feel guilty. All the time-wasted art in this room bothered him much less than the plaque did. “I will not be tempted to look your way again. Your words cannot sway me, Great Grandmother.” He swiveled moodily away from the offending article, facing instead the only window in the workshop. The breaching sun played with his new position upon his stool, throwing mid-afternoon shadows where he needed light. “Must I battle with a yellow dwarf, before I am allowed to continue?” He murmured, whilst creaking back and forth on his sitting stool. A few more shifts of his weight and he faced the only door that led to the breezeway. Good enough for now. The king thought, in a resigned manner. As it stood currently, Bapheuftamist had both a magnificent strength and a dispirited soul, the latter bringing about a choice to break the law. If I could just- Bapheuftamist arched his thick claws a little more firmly around the mold of timber in his paws. Concentrate on this blasted lump of coal! Contentment did not fill him at this moment, he needed more than just a hobby to arrest his unlawful wish of feeding himself to the Sprixie clan. With a slow slide of his claw another scrap of bark fell off of the hideous clump. Feeling as though he could work no further, Bapheuft looked up at the other figurines for a smatter of ingenuity. Steel shelves bolted to the right and left, crammed with statues, miniatures, or dioramas. But no desire to continue inspired him there. Even worthless yetis before his reign, had been able to carve whom they had wanted to appoint for sacrifice. Others gave into marriage. His queasy thoughts did not remind him of stability, but weakness. A true yeti’s divine endurance did not concede them to clutter the assigned workshop with objects of such frivolity. But if not for those artists, his adobe abode would have looked much different. Ugly even. He chuckled in a disturbingly cheerful way, reminded of his parent’s disgusting appreciation for research. They had both decided on Sprixies as candidates for their field of study, when Bapheuftamist grew heavier than their laps could hold. That idea lasted no longer than a meal served at time of twilight. The Sprixies could be fun to engage with, if they weren’t in the mood to be fed. Which, as was found out, is often. “Dullness or food?” King Bapheuftamist returned his gaze to the wooden work-in-progress. He wondered if he were to be so cunning as to make an interesting pad-mate. A snail figurine didn’t speak to him like the wondrous alabaster statues did. They that flushed amber at praise from streaks of sunlight, waving over trimmed ivy bushes separating the garden rows. There might be a new hybrid race that he could have his guards bring to his porch. He only had to remain resolute, and then the work would be finished. “I am not so lucky, to be that crTop of FormBottom of FormTop of Formeative.” Said the spoiled beast. He thumped his ugly work against the stool, un-crossing his legs and landing with scaled paws on the ground. It was time to get up and give up. With his tail now looped around his arm, the tidy beast made his way to the broom that was situated next to the door frame. Bapheuftamist dropped his figurine on the floor, sweeping up discarded wood chips along with it. Giving his art a sniff of resignation, he tossed the offending pile into the waste basket, followed by the broom which smacked brokenly against the wall nearest to the door. “I’ll start over. Make up something disgusting.” The bipedal figure looked nearly human, and was therefore certainly worth a do-over. “Humans are rather plain anyways.” Bapheuft opened the door before him, deciding that since the bog hadn’t shrunk entirely, to forgo sending out his guards to collect a new inhabitant. His attitude changed by the clawing stretch of hunger in his stomach, something he knew one of the chefs could take care of. “Head Chef Charlane mayhap, or Sous Chef Toole.” He mused, scratching his plated belly. It may be advantageous to see if any one of his servants could choose a design for the next sacrifice. Perhaps they had someone in mind, a being that happened to be both intriguing and a nihilist. My frail grandparent’s tradition is bland enough for me to find a mind better suited for my previous hobby. He thought to himself, shutting the door with aid of his tail. Bapheuftamist mentally collected all his foul emotions from a pool of awareness to a place of ignorance. A walk along twelve feet of stone had a soothing effect on the king. Hands that felt useless were dragged on the glass-paned walls, his tail reaching for and soon opening the western entrance.