Mordred leaned against a stone pillar in the shadowed halls of the Tower of Shadows, his arms crossed and his golden eyes scanning the bustling fortress. After the brutal victory at Mount Gram, he felt the weight of conquest lift, if only for a moment. The air was alive with the clatter and clamor of his minions, who seemed to turn even the simplest tasks into spectacles of chaos. Today, he decided to wander his stronghold, curious to see what his loyal—but often baffling—servants were up to. Clad in his black armor, sans the helm left behind in the throne room, he set off, his cape trailing like a dark banner. Little did he know, the minions were about to remind him why leading them was as much a test of patience as it was of power.
Mordred's first stop was the courtyard, where the morning sun cast long shadows across the stone tiles. His footsteps echoed with authority, and the minions, spotting their lord, scrambled to bow, often with comical results. One overzealous minion, attempting an extravagant flourish, tripped over its own feet and faceplanted into a muddy puddle. Mordred raised an eyebrow but said nothing. "Typical," he thought, stepping over the flailing creature.
He headed toward the forge, where the air thrummed with the pounding of hammers and the hiss of molten metal. The sharp scent of coal stung his nostrils as he peered inside. Giblet, the forge master, was barking orders at a gaggle of minions who seemed to have only a vague idea of what they were doing. Mordred watched as one minion, struggling to carry a red-hot sword, dropped it onto another's foot. The unlucky recipient let out a yowl, hopping on one leg, which triggered a chain reaction: another minion knocked over a stack of shields, which crashed to the ground with a deafening clang. A third, in a panic, dumped a bucket of water onto a blazing furnace, sending a cloud of steam billowing through the forge.
Giblet spun around, spotting Mordred, and roared at his underlings, "You brainless clods! Can't you do ANYTHING right?!" Instead of fixing the mess, the minions scurried in circles, pretending to clean up, only to make things worse. One, in a wild flail, swung a hammer and sent a rack of axes flying in all directions.
Mordred sighed, shaking his head. "Sort this out, Giblet," he said dryly, turning to leave before a stray axe could hit him.
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Next was the arena, where Mordred hoped to see some semblance of discipline. His hopes were quickly dashed. As he entered, he saw two Brown Minions, who, instead of sparring, were rolling in the sand, wrestling over a sword. "It's MINE!" one shrieked, while the other bit his arm. Gash, the dungeon overseer, stood nearby, looking ready to explode with frustration.
"What is this?!" Gash roared, hurling his staff at the brawling minions. The staff missed, sailing too far and striking a rack of spears, which toppled with a crash, kicking up a cloud of dust. The minions, undeterred, squealed with delight, thinking it was part of the training, and threw themselves at each other with renewed vigor, forming a tangle of limbs and wildly swinging weapons.
Mordred leaned against the doorway, his face a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Gash," he said calmly, "is this what you call training?"
Gash spun around, his face flushed. "My lord, these fools are like headless chickens! But I swear, I'll make warriors of them yet!"
"You'd better, before they kill each other," Mordred muttered, walking away. Behind him, another yelp rang out as a minion accidentally set his own pants on fire with a torch. Mordred didn't even look back.
As he passed through a side corridor, Mordred ran into Ricket, the female minion who had helped craft his new armor. Before he could say a word, Ricket dropped to her knees, her head nearly touching the stone floor. "Hail, great lord!" she squeaked, her voice a mix of shrill enthusiasm and nervous energy.
Mordred looked down at her, raised a hand, and said curtly, "Rise."
Ricket scrambled to her feet, and her face—usually pale and smudged with forge soot—was now suspiciously red. Mordred narrowed his eyes, caught off guard. Was it embarrassment? Nerves? Or… something else? Before he could ask, Ricket let out a strange, giggling sound, flashed him a wide, almost manic grin, and bolted down the corridor, tripping over her own feet. In her haste, she knocked over a bucket, which clattered across the floor, and she vanished around the corner, leaving only the echo of her squeak behind.
Mordred stood frozen for a moment, mildly stunned. "What in the blazes was that?" he muttered, shaking his head. Could minions really be that odd? He decided not to pursue it—some things were better left unexplained.
Next, Mordred headed to the library, hoping for a moment of peace. Unfortunately, as he crossed the threshold, he was greeted by a scene straight out of a nightmare. Several Green Minions, his newly acquired assassins, had apparently decided to "investigate" the books. One, attempting to climb a shelf, toppled it, sending a cascade of scrolls and tomes crashing to the floor. Another, thinking it a game, began tossing books into the air, while a third—for reasons unknown—was licking a scroll, as if testing whether it tasted like food.
"What are you doing?!" Mordred roared, his voice causing the minions to freeze, looking like children caught in mischief. The one with the scroll in its teeth tried to speak, managing only a muffled "Mrrrph!" before dropping the parchment.
Mordred stepped forward, picked up a book—an ancient tome on magic, now coated in minion saliva—and sighed heavily. "If I ever catch you doing this again, I'll turn you into candles," he growled. The minions squeaked and scrambled to clean up, knocking over another shelf in the process.
Mordred's final stop was the treasury, where he thought he'd at least find order—after all, gold and gems were under strict guard. But as he opened the door, he saw something that nearly made him laugh. Several Brown Minions, instead of guarding the treasure, had decided to "sort" the coins… by throwing them at each other. One, apparently trying to impress his fellows, leaped into a chest of gold and began rolling in it, shouting, "I'm the king of gold!" Another, jealous, tried to pull him out, resulting in both tumbling into another chest, scattering coins across the floor.
Mordred stood in the doorway, a hand on his forehead, trying to suppress his growing frustration. "Get out," he snarled, and the minions, seeing his expression, fled, leaving a glittering mess behind.
Returning to the throne room, Mordred sank onto his throne, leaning heavily against the armrests. His fortress was mighty, his army growing stronger, but the minions… well, they were minions. Their chaotic, ridiculous behavior was both their flaw and, oddly, their charm. Perhaps, he thought, it was their unpredictability that made them so loyal. Or maybe they were just too dim to be anything else.
In the distance, he heard another crash—something had likely toppled over again—and shook his head. "Damn it all," he muttered, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips. Middle-Earth might tremble before his power, but within his own fortress, chaos reigned supreme.
(more comedic tone in this chapter)
(Images)