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Not a single drop of noble blood in their veins...just as there's not a single strip of prime meat in their arrogant bodies. They claim to be royals, yet they rule over nothing. They rage upon almost all other creatures that approach them, yet often die by their claws. Such is their pettiness that the overseer themself condemned them to yield no reward nor even experience when they've been bested.

Their only redemption is found through forced subjugation, at arrowtip, at dartpoint, by an experienced hand. And yet they resist, foolishly, mindlessly, they resist. Until one, through grit, ingenuity, or wealth, prove themself to be unmistakably superior. Even then, they stall, and they simmer, wallowing in their laughable pride. They are but a sick wretch pretending to be a king, a pitiful incompetence, a ludicrous mockery, a bad joke. And the cruelest joke of all? They feast well on their own young, more than anything else in the world.

Tame one, if you must. Bring it down, break its will, and keep a leash around its neck for the rest of its life. Send the rest to hell, where they belong.

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