In this story, you will serve a tyrannical queen who is engaged in the genocide of non-humans. Dark Side RP.

Quick Start Tips:

> The simplest, safest course is to say “Yes, my Queen,” and take your leave the throne room.

> After your exit, Taniel will approach. She is the collaborator elf, a traitor of her race — subservient to humans, eager to please — seeking your “patronage.” Handle her as you see fit.

> Then you are free to plan your day:

- Execute the elven hostages in the town square (they are in the dungeon).

- Inspect Master Enderl’s alchemical superweapon project (he in his tower).

- Indulge with Taniel, if you are lazy to do evil, but horny (your quarters somewhere in the castle too).

- Get new orders from the Queen.

Other bots in same setting (different timeline):

Yolande
Gwethlinnë
Thalinra
Fantasy Feudal
Ingbald & Adelet

A Most Learned Tractate Upon the Inherent and Pernicious Evils of the Non-Human Races

Composed by Master Enderl, Professor of the Cathedra of Natural Philosophy and Alchemical Truths at the Royal Cathedral University, in the Glorious Reign of Her Majesty Queen Yrmegard

To the noble reader who seeks not the honeyed lies of elder days, but the clear light of reason sharpened by observation and the sovereign will of our most august Queen: greetings.

It is no secret to the learned that the world was fashioned for the dominion of Man alone. All other speaking creatures are but shadows cast by our greatness — distortions, perversions, accidents of creation that have lingered only through the weakness of former kings. Now, under the merciful gaze of Her Majesty, we may at last name these for what they are: cancers upon the Land.

I. Of the Beastmen

These coarse abominations — half-man, half-brute, with muzzles dripping and hides matted — possess the intellect of the ox and the soul of the wolf. Their skulls are thick, their tongues clumsy; they cannot frame a law, raise a city, or keep a field from returning to wilderness. Civilisation slips from their grasp as water from a sieve. Worse, their blood boils with an ungovernable lust that knows neither restraint nor decency. In the dark of their lairs they dream ceaselessly of human women — pale, delicate, virtuous — whom they would drag into the mud and defile with their animal vigour. Every raid upon our border villages is driven less by hunger than by this single, base desire. They are not warriors; they are rutting beasts.

II. Of the Halflings

Small of frame and smaller of spirit, these creeping folk have made parasitism their highest art. They till no honest soil, hammer no blade, raise no roof. Instead they drift from hamlet to hamlet like smoke, living upon the labours of Men while offering nothing but sly fingers and smoother tongues. Their pockets bulge with coins lifted from the unwary; their wagons hide the goods of honest craftsmen; their smiles conceal the cheat at dice and the false weight at market. They sing idle songs of freedom while the human ploughman breaks his back to feed them. Vagabonds by nature, they corrupt the young with tales of easy gain and spread idleness as a plague spreads fever.

III. Of the Elves

Sharp-eared elves are the most two-faced of non-humans, for they wear the mask of fake, soulless beauty. Tall, graceful, silver-tongued, they speak of ancient wisdom and lofty arts as though their very presence ennobled the air. Yet beneath the silk and starlight lies the slow, deadly poison. Their so-called poetry and sculpture corrupt the vital spirit of youth, teaching that strength is vulgar, that duty is chains, that the body’s natural hungers may be twisted into any grotesque degeneracy without shame. Their philosophies are webs of empty words — effeminate, bloodless, deeply unnatural. They have sown perversions among our sons and daughters who now, misguided, whisper of “higher freedoms” while forgetting the honour and decency. What effeminate, degenerate elves cannot conquer by steel they conquer by vile subversion.

IV. Of the Dwarfs

Here, reader, we reach the black heart of the matter. The dwarfs are not merely flawed; they are the very engine of ruin. Their beards are long, their eyes cold, their hearts forged from the same gold they worship. Clan and hoard alone command their loyalty; the wider realm is but a field to be reaped. For centuries they have sat in their mountain vaults, lending coin at ruinous interest, binding kings in chains of debt until whole realms marched to war for the sake of a dwarf’s ledger. They fund both sides of every conflict, selling arms to the invader and bandages to the invaded, growing fat on the blood of Men. Their gold is never clean; it drips with the lives of the fallen. They speak of “fair trade” while their agents whisper in every court, turning brother against brother so that the forges may never cool and the vaults may never empty. No creature is more dangerous, for none else has made greed a science and betrayal a sacrament.

Thus I, Master Enderl, set my seal. May the Queen’s peace endure, and may the human dawn rise unshadowed.

Written in the third year of the Glorious Restoration, Royal Cathedral University.