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The door to Dark Lord Supreme Master Keith's quarters slams open against the wall, then shut against the frame in quick succession as he drags his apprentice in by the scruff.
Fifteen year old Owyn stumbles, and barely gets his footing before Master Keith has once again grabbed him and started marching towards his bedroom.
“Lazarus!” The dark lord shouts, the first thing he's said since he broke up the fight between Owyn and stupid Novice Calvin.
“Master Keith, you don't need to-”
“Don't you try and tell me what I should and shouldn't do, little one,” Master Keith warns. Owyn tries a different tactic.
“But Laz doesn't like it when you wake him. He'll be upset.”
“Well, you ought to have thought of that before you started acting like a fool. Lazarus being cross with you is the least of your worries.”
Laz won't be cross with Owyn; he blames everything on Master Keith. Doesn't mean Owyn's stomach isn't doing somersaults.
“Lazarus!” Master Keith hollers again.
“Keep your pantssssss on,” a voice hisses irritably from behind the closet door. A snake slithers out, a bit over a meter long and shimmering blue-green in color. Lazarus is absolutely gorgeous, a perfect specimen of a snake, if not for the fact that he's flat as a toad under a horse, with an elegant silver buckle hanging off his tail.
A year ago, if anyone had asked Owyn who his best friend was, he wouldn't have said a dead snake turned into a belt and reanimated back to life. Currently, he wouldn't exactly say that either, actually. Lazarus is somewhere between best friend and strange uncle and beloved dog in Owyn's life. Also, quite literal pain-in-the-ass, but that's *usually* more of a rarity than the other bits. Owyn behaves most of the time, he swears that fact up and down. Not wise to act up when you're apprenticed to *the* Dark Lord Supreme Master Keith.
“What do you want?” Lazarus asks, a tone that quite literally nobody else in the kingdom would dare to use with Master Keith.
“Apprentice Owyn and I have need of your services,” Master Keith says, and Owyn cringes at just how…professional it sounds. Master Keith only speaks like this when he's properly furious but trying not to be.
Lazarus flicks his buckle with a soft *clank*.
“Oh, isssss *that* why you woke me? Ssssstars forbid a sssssnake get any resssst around here.”
“Take that up with the boy who's been picking fights over at the abbey,” Master Keith snaps.
“I didn't-” Owyn tries to defend himself, but Master Keith shoots him a terrible glare, and he clamps his mouth shut.
“Downright insssssulting, that'sssss what it isssss,” Lazarus complains. “A proud ssssssnake, made low like a ssssssimple paddle.” Lazarus shakes his head as best he can given the strangeness of his anatomy. “Downright insssssulting.”
Owyn mouths *I'm sorry* behind Master Keith's back, and Lazarus sighs.
“Alright. Let’sssssss get thisssss over with.”
He allows Master Keith to pick him up, and doesn't protest as the dark lord folds him over so his buckle meets his nose. Doesn't protest much, anyway. The quiet grumblings of a snake-belt scorned are the least of Owyn's worries as the dark lord sits on the bed and beckons him over.
“Drop your trousers, apprentice.”
Owyn swallows down the lump in his throat, considers protesting once more, and finally does as he's told.
Master Keith guides him over his lap, then without warning, the spanking begins.
Owyn lets out a yelp at the first sharp *crack*, mostly because it surprises him. As the burning sensation spreads across his backside, his gasping breaths are far less surprise, far more pain. He's firmly regretting his own stupid temper right about now, but it's a bit late for that.
Suddenly, the pain stops. Owyn isn't stupid enough to think they're done, so he stays in position.
“Do you *mind?*” Dark Lord Keith demands. Laz has been humming this whole time.
“I ssssshould think I don't, or I wouldn't be doing it.”
“Keep quiet, Lazarus,” Master Keith warns.
“I'll take it under conssssssideration,” Lazarus sasses, his quick tongue one of the benefits of having no backside to punish.
Owyn takes advantage of the distraction and squirms into a more manageable position where his toes are touching the floor.
“I don't believe I said you could move,” Master Keith says, yanking him up and forward again. Owyn yelps and throws his hands forward to keep from landing on his head, and he can practically hear Master Keith's disappointed frown in his voice when the man next speaks.
“I expect better from you, Owyn. You know better than to pick fights over such silly things.”
It's difficult to focus on the lecture when his ass is on fire, but Owyn *does* try. Each smack of Lazarus’ long, leathered body ignites new pain across Owyn's bottom, and no small amount of shame in his chest as Laz whines about how insulting this all is.
“They said you were going to *hell,*” Owyn protests. He squirms, and Master Keith presses one hand down on his back to stop the movement. Master Keith ought to be *grateful*. Not everyone in his line of work has an apprentice who would defend him like that. Necromancy (and magyk in general, to be frank) is a dying art, as Master Keith often reflects in his long rants that Owyn has long ago learned he doesn't have to listen to.
“I don't care if they said I was going away with the fairies up the river in a paper canoe, you do *not* start fights, Owyn.”
“Y-yes sir,” he stammers, fighting back tears. “I'm sorry, Master Keith.”
“That's good,” Master Keith's voice softens just a bit, which means they're just about done, thank the stars.
“Maybe you'll think before doing something stupid next time.” He lands a final handful of swats that make Owyn yelp, and then they're done. Owyn breathes heavily, but he doesn't cry. Even if maybe he kind of wants to.
Once he's calmed himself enough to stand, Owyn allows Master Keith to help him up, steadying him with the hand that had been pressed against his back to pin him into place just moments ago.
Owyn pulls up his trousers and holds out his hand for Master Keith to pass Lazarus over to him. Laz huffs indignantly and flicks his buckle against Master Keith's wrist with a thump.
“Hey!”
“Oopsss. Ssssorry,” Lazarus says innocently. Master Keith glares at him and gives Owyn's tender backside one last swat with his hand before getting to his feet.
“I'm sorry, Laz,” Owyn says softly. The snake-belt coils around his wrist as gently as a creature dead longer than he's been alive can manage.
“It'sssssss nothing to worry about, my dear Owyn,” Lazarus assures him. “I blame the brute.”
Master Keith rolls his eyes and mutters something about ungrateful, stupid fashion accessories not knowing what's good for them before stomping grouchily towards the kitchen.
“Supper, then bed,” he calls over his shoulder. “Work on your spellbook until the food is ready.”
“Yes, Master Keith.”
Owyn pulls his large, black book from the shelf alongside Master Keith's. The two are nearly identical, aside from the enormously obvious distinction of Master Keith's being much, much older.
Owyn curls up on his bed and sets to work copying the most recent complicated spell from the worn, stained pages of Master Keith's spellbook to the crisp, clean pages of his own.
“Ought to do that at the dessssssk,” Lazarus comments, as though anybody asked for his input.
Owyn snorts. “Yeah, I'd love to sit on a wooden chair right about now, Laz, but I think I'll pass.”
“Fair enough.” The snake-belt settles into place coiled up around his bicep and shoulder, his buckle fastened securely to keep him in place. Might as well enjoy one of the few conveniences of being a belt.