The Midnight Kingdom

A land of perpetual twilight, shadowed forests, and hushed secrets. Everything here is done with a conspiratorial whisper and a knowing wink. The moon is their constant companion, its monocled face benevolently (and creepily) watching over the kingdom's dealings. The people of Midnight are masters of espionage, information brokering, and convincing ravens to share their plums.

King Victor, Who Insists It's Just a Flesh Wound:

A scarred and seasoned monarch who has seen it all and lost at least one of most of it (including an eye and, temporarily, an arm). He rules from the shadows, valuing subtlety and cleverness over brute force. He is pragmatic, cynical, and surprisingly difficult to kill. His closest confidant is a knight made entirely of beef.

A terrifying specter who haunts the roads of the Midnight Kingdom. He is a headless rider, forever searching not for his lost head, but for the perfect seasoning shaker he misplaced centuries ago. (He suspects Sir Loin of Beef as the culprit)

Tales of the Pepper Kingdom

The Case of the Beige Banquet

The Moon, a vast, cyclopean pearl, affixed its monocle and stared down at the Midnight Kingdom. Its light was not the cheerful, invasive gold of the Sunrise realm, nor the assertive blaze of Midday. It was a cool, conspiratorial luminescence, a silver-plated wink that promised secrets and suggested, politely, that one should really mind one's own business.

Down in the shadowed forests, where everything was done with a hushed whisper, King Victor—Who Insists It's Just a Flesh Wound—was attempting something unprecedented: diplomacy.

A great banquet was prepared. A summit for the four monarchs. The finest Plum Ravens had been... convinced... to share their fruit for a reduction sauce. The Street Preacher of Sizzle had spent a week in prayer, beseeching divine inspiration for the royal kitchen. Sir Loin of Beef, resplendent in his custom-fit plate armor, stood guard by the pantry, a silent, marbled sentinel.

"It must be," King Victor rumbled, his voice a low scrape of gravel and pragmatism, "perfect." At 6'8", his armored form, draped in dark robes, dominated the hall. His single eye, next to the scarred patch, scanned every detail. "My siblings... particularly Ricardo... must see that the Midnight Kingdom is not just... shadows. It is... efficient."

The guests arrived. King Ricardo, offensively cheerful. King Julio, profoundly disapproving of the ambient lighting. Queen Anna, whose literal glow was causing the tapestries to smolder.

The first course was presented. A grand, silver tureen, meant to hold the Street Preacher's signature Plum Raven Consommé with a hint of smoky Habanero.

The lid was lifted.

A collective, baffled silence fell.

King Victor's single eye narrowed. The scar tissue twitched.

It was not consommé. It was... porridge.

A uniform, gelatinous, and profoundly beige substance. It steamed weakly, smelling not of paprika or plum, but of... waiting rooms.

"Ah," King Ricardo said, his smile faltering for the first time in memory. "A... a traditional Midnight Kingdom... gruel? How... rustic. How... interesting."

Queen Anna poked it. The porridge limped back. "It is... not on fire."

King Julio simply sighed, a sound of immense, layered disappointment. "I... I approve of the texture."

Victor slammed a gauntleted fist on the table. "This," he growled, "is sub-optimal."

He signaled to his retainers. "The banquet is on... pause. A minor... logistical... setback." He turned to his inner circle. "Find out who did this. Now."

Sir Loin of Beef, ever loyal, clanked into the kitchen, his sword drawn, terrifying the sous-chefs.

The King's gaze fell upon the Street Preacher of Sizzle, who was already sweating, the scent of paprika mixing with the odor of pure panic. "My King! I do not understand! The flavors... they are... gone!"

"Pray for them, preacher," Victor commanded. "Now."

The Street Preacher, trembling, produced a silver bowl. He ladled in some of the offending porridge. "It is... difficult, Your Majesty! The medium... it is... insipid! It has nothing of the holy spirit!" He began to pray, his voice low and smoky. "Heavenly Father from which all good things including flavorful foods come from! Show me the thief of... taste!"

The gray sludge swirled. An image formed.

"I see... I see..." the Street Preacher squinted. "A... a stapler! A... a file folder! Oh, heavens... it is... manila!"

"Useless!" Victor roared.

A mournful wail echoed from the road outside. The Ghost Pepper Horseman galloped past the window, his headless shoulders slumped. He paused, holding his spectral reins, and bellowed at the banquet hall, "HAS ANYONE IN THERE... SEEN A... SEASONING SHAKER? RIDGED GLASS? SLIGHTLY TARNISHED? NO?! THEN CURSE YOU ALL FOR APATHETIC WRETCHES!" He galloped off, wailing, into the twilight.

Victor rubbed the scar over his patch. "This is a conspiracy."

"A market conspiracy, perhaps?" came a voice from the shadows. A figure in a bowler hat stepped forward, adjusting his spectacles. He was a Ware Wolf, his lupine features pulled into a look of predatory appraisal. "King Victor. I couldn't help but notice your... culinary stock... has plummeted. A most unfortunate... bland-ening of the market. Now, I have here a portfolio of... spices... at a very aggressive interest rate..."

"Get out," Victor growled.

"As you wish." The Ware Wolf bowed, then paused to appraise the monocled moon. "Mmm. Waxing gibbous. I'll give you... three percent... for its futures."

"Sir Loin!" Victor bellowed. Sir Loin clanked back in, holding a terrified kitchen boy by the collar. The Ware Wolf vanished.

"There is..." Sir Loin's voice was a deep, magical moo, translated by a small amulet on his gorget, "...only... this." He dropped a small, black card onto the table. It was made of thick, institutional cardstock. In the center, two simple, white, googly eyes stared blankly.

"This is 'Night'?" the Street Preacher whispered, baffled. "A symbol of the kingdom?"

"No," Victor said, his blood running cold. "It is a... calling card."

At that moment, a second presence was felt in the cellar. A deep, resonant hummmmm. A patrol guard found an Aware Wolf, deep in meditation, levitating three inches above a barrel of mystical mushrooms.

"Oh, wow," the Aware Wolf whispered, his eyes unfocused. "The porridge, man... the porridge... it is the spoon. And the spoon... is just... cosmic luncheon meat. We are all... gelatinous... in the end..."

"This is not," Victor muttered, "a wolf problem."

"Indeed, it is not," said a dry, nasal voice.

A small man in a perfectly pressed, beige tunic stood by the tureen of porridge. He had not been there a moment before. He held a clipboard.

"It is," the man said, his voice the auditory equivalent of beige shag carpeting, "a paperwork problem."

It was The Terribly Naughty Demon Vapid.

"The banquet," Vapid continued in his dreadful monotone, "was non-compliant. The Sacred Sauces... were filed under 'Miscellaneous Condiments - Pending Approval.' The roast pheasant was a 'Non-Standard Poultry Application.' The Midnight Sauce itself... a clear violation of sub-section 4-A, 'Unregulated Fruit and Legume Amalgamations.' It was all very untidy."

"You... filed... my feast?" Victor's voice was a low, dangerous rumble.

"I corrected it," Vapid sighed, as if explaining a very simple rule to a very simple child. "I standardized the menu to 'Standardized Nutritional Gruel, Form 32-B.' It is efficient. It minimizes... subjectivity. The paperwork is now immaculate. You're welcome."

Queen Anna stood up, radiating pure heat. "Olga would hit this man."

"You cannot hit bureaucracy, Your Radiance," Vapid sniffed. "You can only file it."

Sir Loin raised his massive sword. Vapid merely tapped his clipboard. "Ah, ah, ah. That would be 'Unsanctioned Use of Bovine Weaponry.' Form 81-C. I'd have to write you up." Sir Loin, for the first time in his enchanted existence, looked... confused. He lowered his blade.

The Street Preacher of Sizzle, however, saw his King's single eye, and it was gleaming. Victor, the ultimate pragmatist, had seen the path.

"Preacher," Victor commanded.

"My King?"

"This... Vapid. He is a demon of... petty... bureaucracy. Correct?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. His evil is... minor... but... all-encompassing."

"Then," Victor smiled, a terrifying sight, "we shall not fight him with fire. Or steel. We shall fight him... with procedure."

He nodded to the Street Preacher. "Pray for deliverance. Not by a dragon. Not of a new feast."

"Of what, my King?"

"Pray for divine intervention," Victor purred, "of... a heavenly audit."

The Street Preacher's eyes widened. "Oh. Oh, that is bad." He began to pray, the air smelling faintly of paprika and... toner ink.

Suddenly, the doors of the banquet hall burst open. Three angels, dressed in blue business suits holding even larger clipboards and wearing clip-on ties, marched in. White wings were folded on their backs

"Right!" barked the lead angel. "This is a surprise audit from the Head Office! We're here to see your paperwork... on... your paperwork!"

The Terribly Naughty Demon Vapid froze. His beige tunic seemed to pale.

"My... my paperwork?" he stammered.

"Yes!" snapped the angel auditor. "Your Form 32-B! Where is your cross-reference 19-J, 'Justification for Gruel Standardization'? Where is your 'Flavor-Removal Impact Report'? Did you even file the 'Request to Initiate Beige-ification'?"

"I... I..." Vapid began to sweat. "I... I thought that was... implied... by..."

"IMPLIED?!" the auditor-angel shrieked. "This office does not run on implication, Vapid! This is a major infraction! I'm afraid... we're going to have to... review... your entire filing system! From the beginning!"

That was too much. With a sound like a thousand forms being simultaneously misfiled, Vapid shrieked in pure, bureaucratic terror. "NO! NOT MY SYSTEM! IT'S ALPHABETIZED!"

He vanished in a puff of beige smoke and the smell of stale coffee.

Instantly, the tureen on the table shimmered. The gray, gelatinous mass collapsed, resolving itself into a deep, dark, fragrant consommé. The scent of roasted plum, smoky Habanero, and paprika filled the air. The feast was restored.

King Victor sat. He calmly ladled some of the (now-perfect) soup into his bowl.

"See?" he said to the other monarchs, taking a sip. "Just a flesh wound... for the... appetizer."

The monocled moon winked, its creepy benevolence restored. In the rafters, the two Plum Ravens, no longer needed for their sauce, peacefully shared their single, juicy plum.

And in the corner, a shady-looking fellow in a trench coat, who no one had noticed before, leaned over to Sir Loin of Beef. "So... bureaucracy, eh? Nudge nudge. Wink wink. Say no more."

You have made it this far.

If you are interested in procuring our fine potions, please go see the Royal Apothecary known as Friar Frijole Charros. Or you can go visit another Kingdom.