Lord Henry von Schunzfield had ruled over the mob currently breaking down the door to his safe-room for fifty-four years.
A crack of wood splintering filled the room. His safe-room's damned latch, probably made by a commoner's blacksmith, wouldn't hold much longer. Henry stashed the softly humming device he had spilled his blood into underneath a tarp, and got in position.
To sell this, his disloyal, rioting subjects rioting in his throne room can't think of anything other than utter bloodlust for him. It's what drove them into rioting in the first place, and he'll be damned if they notice what he locked himself in here to prepare.
His body groaned as he staggered towards his lavish head chair of his safe-room. The safe-room of his keep wasn't cramped by any means, but this chair just about made the room feel like it. High-backed, with cushioning. Luxurious food draped the table in front of it.
Henry seated himself, and began gorging himself on it. Chunks of slow-roasted meat and bread padded his large frame, drenching his face in decadent sauces.
Crack! went the door, one of the hinges flying off by his head.
Henry managed get another bite in before a mighty crash echoed through the room as the door - finally - was hit off its anchors. Wood splinters went flying, and Henry covered his face with his cloak. They could've scarred him!
Behind the door was an angry mob of soot-faced, underfed commoners. The ones he could most clearly see behind the allure of the food were holding a tree's log, dented from the impacts against his door. The faces beyond them were filled with madness, their angry outmatching any reasonable conversation he could offer.
He could just barely make out the disgusting mess they made of his throne room. Riots, they never know how to have decorum.
Maybe it wasn't a peasant blacksmith who made the hinges, at least.
"Men!" Henry shouted, causing one of the peasants to flinch. "Care to join me?"
He waved a piece of bread, covered in sauce towards them, smiling as stupidly as he could manage. "There's plenty here for everyone, don't want to waste it before killing me!."
A silence settled, before one of the participants in the mob finally shouted "Get the bastard!"
As he was dragged out of the room kicking and screaming by the raging mob, he did his best to hide his mirth from them. Exactly as he wanted!
-
He had been dragged, put into stocks beneath a guillotine, and meant to listen to every one of the rabble's complaints about his station.
This certainly hadn't gone to plan. The rebellious peasants were supposed to execute him, chop chop, get him right off this mortal coil! Instead, he had had to listen every Dick and Maisy's tales of woe. Every time he tried to interrupt beyond when the peasant wanted him to, the guards - peasants with stolen pikes from his guard's armory! - poked him in the back!
The lady in front of him continued speaking, her words flowing over his mind like oil over water. He had begun making up tales of tragedy and suffering by the second hour, lost interest in that by the third, and was now resignedly listening to this woman spout off about how it was his fault she couldn't care for her husband.
"...the taxes you gave me made him go hungry for so long he couldn't work anymore! He died!" she ended her rant with a shout, staring down at him like she had a point.
He met her eyes. "Bellevue," he raised a hand as she opened her mouth. "I know that's not your name, and I frankly don't care. Your husband was a rounding error for my barony, and if you couldn't afford to feed him and you, then that's your fault. I don't see how your inability to pay my taxes is anything less than a failure on your part."
Bellevue looked at him with such hate that he was shocked she hadn't tried to stab him. "He..." she started, and then clenched her fists. "You bastard, you fucking killed him!" He almost laughed, but any mirth he felt was cut off by the sharp smack of her fist against his cheek.
When another hit wasn't forthcoming, he chanced a look at her. She was being counseled by some other peasant in lackluster clothing, matted with dirt and loosely fitting him. When they both turned away, one of the guards to his left walked towards the crowd in front of him.
"You've all heard the sins committed against the people of Fillonly by our despotic governance, led by our cruel and terrible former Baron! Today, his rule ends with his head hitting the cobbles, and we will be free to govern ourselves!" The man shouted, eliciting a cheer from the crowd far exceeding Henry's own speeches. These slovenly peasants just didn't know how to appreciate good speeches.
"Along with the cowardly Baron, who we found hiding in his safe-room eating foods meant for the common people, the Councillors of his reign will also meet their end! We will start anew with leaders who care about the common person!" Fear shot through Henry for the first time since he heard talk of the riots breaking out.
His countermeasure was safe in the safe-room, but if his councilmembers were executed, it was all for naught. He had to hope his Councilman Brinfeld had either escaped or was executed first, or all of this was for not.
The peasants had been chanting "The people's revolution!" over and over again, but it fell on his unlistening ears. He watched dimly as his councilmembers were led into stocks to his sides, the blades promising their death held steadfastly above them.
If they didn't all have hoods over their heads, he might be able to see if his back-up councilman was among them. Instead of vainly peering for his man, he prayed to the only god he had ever known. Please, if you exist. Make Councilman Brinfeld have either died before now, or have escaped. He heard nothing back.
His awareness trickled back out into the world. There was no point in trying to get out of these stocks as some others locked in them were attempting: he had seen traitors against him executed in them, and they had thrashed and broken bones and never gotten out of them. He had no chance.
"...and with that: say goodbye to the reign of Lord Baron Henry von Schunzfield and his councilmen. May them never darken this world again."
A snap, and the loosening of rope.
The feeling of a sharp nothing where his body used to be.
The last thing Henry von Schunzfield's eyes saw was the sky, the sun peaking out behind spindly clouds.
-
"And this will work?" His hands creased his face, the light from the contraption his court wizard had provided him.
"Yes, yes, Lord. It will work. All I need is a hair from the man you'd wish to possess post-mortem, and the device will be ready." Magnagreen held out a wizened hand, his robe hanging loosely off his decrepit forearm.
"I had a servant boy pluck a hair off one of my councilmans during the night: Brinfeld, I think. I've paid for an escape route for him from the riots, so he should get out safely." Henry placed the hair delicately in the wizard's out-facing palm, which snapped close immediately.
"Good, good. My magic will automatically pick someone from the surrounding area if he happens to be outside of the range of the device or if he is... an unsuitable host for your spirit." Magnagreen dropped the hair in, it spinning the stale air of the wizard's chambers. The light began a pulsing yellow, and the man clapped his hands. "Perfect! It works!"
Two thoughts stole his attention: his highly-compensated and very skilled court wizard hadn't thought it would work? More importantly... "A person from the surrounding area? Why wouldn't he be a suitable host?" Henry's hand fell away from his face to reveal the wizard looking... abashed, almost.
"Well... Councilman Brinfeld wouldn't be suitable if he were, say, dead. By the riots that are going to likely kill you." Magnafore scratched his chin. “Magic is unpredictable, my Lord. If your chosen host is dead, the device will pick the next best match - someone suitable for your survival. Beyond that, I promise nothing.”
Henry had to resist the urge to throttle the man. He tried to keep rage from entering his tone: "I thought this was a ticket out of my potential demise, Magnafore. Why are you telling me now, after I've paid you, that there are restrictions?"
Magnafore shrugged. "Magic is a wild creature, my Lord. Be thankful I'm confident you can cheat death at all." He frowned. "Let me walk you through how to set it up..."
-
His awareness drifted back scant slices. First, limbs sent spasms of pain into his mind. He flexed one of his hands, the different shape escaping his notice.
Second, a rank smell hit his nose. Death, burning flesh, and decay all forced its way in, causing him to gag. His sense of taste was the third thing, hitting iron and warmth in his mouth.
Fourth came sound. Fire crackled, close to him. The forest was sharp and alive in a way he had never known on the rare occasion he had left his keep.
Fifth came sight, once he realised his eyes had been closed. What captured his attention was not the corpses around him, polluting his space with the stench of decay. It was not the standard of a governance he had no familiarity with, hung proudly above him. It was the night sky, the moon and her brothers hanging in solid indifference to his rebirth.