A slight problem

No lesson today, my minions, just a little catch-up on my current schemes for Utter Domination, which have been set back just a scoch.

Immediately after returning from my, er, enforced vacation, I found myself spat out onto the Plain of Sorrow in an untidy pile of Gar pellets. The Plain is a place nearly as bleak and lifeless as the Abyss itself, and generally described as 'the ass-end of nowhere'. It says it on the map, actually, in parentheses. Good cartographers around here.

Anyway, through sheer force of will and a good deal of trial and error, I managed to reconstitute myself. There really is a place for everything, and everything really should be in its place. And I always thought my mother's little aphorisms were just her trite nature shining through.

I trudged my way out of the Plains, came upon a mud-walled village named Thrudd, subjugated the peasants there to my will, forcing them to clothe my sun-blistered body (no clothes in the Abyss, for future reference) , feed me from their pitiful stores of root vegetables and dried lizards, and give me their finest residence to sleep in (the mud hut that had moldy straw on the mud floor).

In the morning, after a nice bark-and-lizard soup flavoured with the ceremonial blessing of the entire village (apparently they spit in your food as a sign of respect, even awe in Thrudd), I continued my homeward journey, looking forward to finally arriving at my Dark Stronghold and reclaiming my rightful (or rather wrongful) place in the grand sheme. And a bath.

To make a long story short, it's gone.

That bastard Hamish tore it all down. I always thought the phrase 'leave no stone atop another' was just so much hyperbole. Apparently not. My Pit, my undead army, my poetry! All gone.

So. I find myself in the position that all Evil Overlords must inevitably come to at least once in their careers: Plotting my revenge.

That's all I have the heart to write tonight, dear minions. Rest assured, however, you haven't heard the last of me. Nor has Hamish.