Dark Lord Strategies For The Entrepreneurially Challenged: Chapter 2

Many eon’s ago there had been a great rift in time, a war between the forces of good and evil. It grew to the point that everyone was tired of the constant back and forth, so  the overlords, decided to quit. Quit isn’t quite the right word. They stopped fighting, not because they didn’t love a good battle for the fate of mankind, but because they were neglecting their own lands. Peasants growing rowdy from lack of rule were revolting. Minions, slaves and other servants were leaving and seeking more abusive and attentive masters. Overlords were waring with themselves over trivial matters and uncontrolled chaos  ensured throughout the country. It took the formulation of an Government, chosen by the various overlords to represent them to bring order to the chaos.

With rules and revelations established and firmly in place the country began to prosper. The citizen, comfortable again with the steady fear and terror settled back into their every day lives of peasantry and poor-dom. The overlords went back to wracking havoc in their domain and peacefully dwelling together (for the  most part. Small skirmish and duels would break out as is only expected from a homogenous group of evildoers living together within the borders of a single country).

The do gooders across the boarder were rather pleased with the development, glad to no longer be engaged in the exhausting mission of saving the world from all darkness. As it turned out, not everyone wanted the life of roses, sugar and walks in the parks. Some people drew joy out of causing terror in the hearts of all they came across, issuing vast orders of death and destruction on a daily basis, while others enjoyed living under the tyrannical, though well organized, rule of an overlord with a daily fear of their own demise. To these people, life had never been merrier.

Life continued as normal. Some overlords were memorable and some forgotten, but all kept to a common ethic. Inspire through fear. Griselda had been a formidable ruler, leaving terror and awe in her wake. Findelwort managed astonishment. His days were long, filled with endless rhetoric  from his stewed and advisor Nigel on all the ways he could better himself, and endless attempts to bolster himself into the role he was never meant to play.

Not for his lack of trying, the disarray of Findellwort’s Dark domain was seen in all aspects of his life. His minions wandered aimlessly through the fortress halls, remembering the days of before when they were constricted into service, ordered to wreck havoc and rewarded with plunder. Now their days were spent in endless backgammon matches and stagings of elaborate operas.

The Fortress was in disrepair itself, its once magnificent black walls crumbling. The roof leaked over the spare bedroom, the drawbridge was operating on a one chain bungee system, the dungeons were to dank for the rats.   Even his once friendly experiment gone wrong Steve had resorted to hiding under the bed and keeping Findellwort up from what little sleep he got.

Findellwort fumbled for his list, smearing the ink with his dirty hands. He crossed off Feed Steve and tossed the list onto a pile on his desk. With a heavy sigh he sat, his body slumping. It was only nine in the morning and the pile in front of him spoke of the horrors that awaited. Some of it was half drawn budgets for building repairs while others were outlandish plans cooked up by Nigel to enhance the Kingdom.  There was a status report including every small detail. It would need to be gone through, scrutinized for mistakes and improvement. Findellowrt tossed it aside. It could wait.

He turned his attention to the pile of mail carefully stacked to one side, no doubt left there by Nigel. He picked up the first envelope. It read; Deserted Valley Moat Care. An elaborate outline  of every reason any Dark Lord would chose Deserted Valley for all their moat care needs. Findellowrt set it aside. Reading through the rest of the mail, one envelope caught his attention, a garcacious purple envelope with a obnoxiously large seal displaying dragon devouring a small child stamped on the back. It was no doubt from the Coalition of Evil Advancement. 

Generally letters from the CEA meant one of few things. They were reminding members of the oblatory voting of new cabinet members, asking for money from the mandatory peasant taxation or they were following up on a citation or complaint of being to plaicent. Findellwort had no doubt that the latter was true. He had received several citations in the last year for failed attempts of evilness. Findellwort pulled out the neatly folded document:

Mr. Findellwrot The Agreeable,  Dark Lord of Grisholm,

It has come to the attention of Collation of Evil, Breueru of Internal affairs that the allotted time of three years since your inheritance of Grisholm without the proper insurance or notification of an heir of the estate is up. Given as the three years is almost passed, you are given a extended grace period to secure and formally recognize an heir, wether sired, kidnaped, bought or apprenticed (details unnecessary) to be successor to  all the estate both beholden to you now and further gained of Grisholm. If you fail to percure such an heir by the date of one month after the death of your predecessor then your will be considered void to any other then the legally appointed heir as seen fit by the CEA. Please feel free to contact us if you have any question.

Coalition of Evil Advancement

Broxworth the Woeful, Lord of Heapshire and the Black Sea


Dark Lord Strategies For The Entrepreneurially Challenged: Chapter 1

Evil Overlord tip #7 :

When I’ve captured my adversary and he says, “Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about?” I’ll say, “No.” and shoot him. No, on second thought I’ll shoot him then say “No.”

Every successful person has a morning routine that sets them in the proper motion for a productive day. Some enjoy a hot cup of coffee on a peaceful veranda surrounded by nature and their own thoughts. Others carefully peruse through the morning paper, staying well informed of current events in order to become a better citizen, while some partake in a long gentle exercise to mentally prepare their bodies and mind for the forthcoming requirements of the day. The unsuccessful ones, the ones who barely crawl through life with everything intact take on a different sort of tactics. Some pour cold milk on the counter only to ponder whilst eating  their cornflakes of their peculiar dryness. Some blare controversial lyrical poems, upsetting elderly neighbors enjoying the songs and birds, and others sleep through several alarms to only wake screaming from their bed, inventible overslept, late for the onslaught ahead. This category of people was Findellwort. Even the half scribbled list on a leftover takeout menu clutched in his hand seemed a helpless grab at a day already beyond saving.

  • Don’t Forget
  • 1. Wash Dirty Laundry
  • 2. Find Dirty Laundry
  • 3. Check that it is Dirty Laundry
  • 4. Put Away Clean (not dirty) Laundry
  • 5. Divy Out Booty
  • 6. Send treats to local peasants
  • 7. Teach Lesson to small revolting village
  • 8. Minion Rex’s Birthday 🙂
  • 9. Feed Steve

wake up

Findellwort briefly considered his one successful task, written hastily as an after thought several hours after the fact.   Finding a moment of solace in his fare, he pocketed the list and reached into the bucket he carried with the other hand, pulling out a half rotted piece of meat.  He held the chunk out in front of him. “It’s breakfast time.” He called. A grunting responded. Findellowrt tossed the meat. It hit the floor with a squish. He gave it a small push with his barefoot, His shoes still missing from the pervious night, nudging it further on the bed. Hastily he withdrew his foot at the snarling and hissing as the meat was pulled into the shadows of his bed. Glad the unruly task was over Findellwort sighed. Steve was fed. His bedchamber was safe another day.

Perhaps it should be noted at this time that FIndellwort was not the most of ordinary people to be found. Or in this sense, he was the most of ordinary, with the most unordinary of jobs. Findellwort was a Dark Lord. Dark Lord of Grisholm, the tall and luminous fortress that perched upon Stede Peak. He ruled over the land below with an iron fist, dealing out his cruelty, without mercy, inflicting terror in his subjects so that he might further his dark domain. Or at least that was what the job description read. Findellwort had inherited the whole unfortunate business when his grandmother had died in a freak accident several years back involving a sheep and several angry villagers. Left without any other surviving heirs, misfortune being quiet common among the Dark Lord Family, Griselda was forced to leave all her domain to her rather well behaved and quite polite grandson Findellwort.

It was a mistake. Findellwort knew that the moment he signed the legal contract. Griselda should have given the position to any other person. The peasants who accidentally killed her could have done a better job running an evil kingdom then Findellwort. Since he took power, peace and prosperity had presided over the domain. Education abounded, the roads were safe for travel and crime dropped to an unnoticeable rate. The villagers had even started a May Day celebration! And no one was happy. In fact they resented him, many moving to other neighboring dark kingdoms grumbling that if they wanted to live with a benevolent ruler they wouldn’t have moved to Grisholm in the first place!

Findellwort was not fond of death. Or blood. or any kinda of violence in particular. His first act as Overlord had been to band the “unnecessary but obligatory deceptions of villagers to ensure evilness reigns” as states in the Dark Overlord Hand book Article 5 – Evil Tactics and When to Deploy Them. Findellwort was more fond of the more subtle methods, a tribunal made up of villages to discuss options of social community without penalizing and the continual advancement of Grisholm. It had taken several years to convince the villagers that “Dutiful Sacrifice of a Calf and Vestal Virgin to Ensure the Destruction Postponed” Article 10 – Duties of a Villager to Prevent the Inevitable End, was both an unnecessary waste of a good cow and young woman, as well as an unpleasant mess to deal with afterwards. The villagers were willing to let him slide on changes, but other requirements of were still expected. Findellwort spent many a long night orchestrating the annual burning of farms, kidnappings of strong children, enslavement of subjects and harassment of minions.



Ever just have a moment where you pause and think, “God, today is perfect!” It happens every so often to me, particularly when I am outside enjoying nature. I think nature is the purest form of perfection. Even in its most treacherous moments, it is still an image of something more then I could ever hope to recreate.

I was out gathering sticks for the wood stove, living in the far reaches of the country we have a cast iron stove that heats the stove. As it is mid march and snowing today its safe to say that fires are still being lit and kept to take the occasional chill out of the room. As I was gathering sticks I couldn’t help but find myself admiring how perfect the day was.

The day was sunny, lit with the glow of an afternoon sun.The effulgent browns and oranges of the the baleful winter were highlighted with a golden hue. Gusts of wind rushed through the leafless branches, a wind that spoke of someone else’s adventure from another land. A wind that held a mystery around the corner for those brave enough to seek it.

Near to me my dog flounced and pounded through the underbrush, chasing the shadows of leaves and birds above. It was a moment of peace, a moment of things being right in the world. There were no cries of outrages at human atrocity, no intransigent criss cross chaos of candidates and voters arguing the same rhetoric of centuries past, and seldom a passing motorist on the road below. A perfect moment.

How rare those seem to be. Perfect moments. Yet, people say life is made up of moments, moments compiled onto more moments creating strings of memories; many of which are committed to remembrance only to be washed away with age. If life is made up of moments shouldn’t we notice them more? Take that pause in the already strident and race driven lives to notice when a moment graces our feet? I believe that there more perfect moments then not, if only recognized for the moment that they are.


Such as my cat, walking across the living room to give me nose rub before settling on his favorite chair for the eight successive nap in the evening.