The Sorcerer Flees

The air, thick with the stench of dinosaur and the lingering echoes of power ballads so potent they could curdle milk, vibrated with Malakor’s utter, soul-shattering agony. He clutched his ears, his ancient, bejeweled fingers digging into his temples as if to physically excavate the offending sounds. Dr. Aris Thorne, a triumphant, albeit slightly sweaty, smirk plastered across his face, gestured with a fossilized femur towards the colossal speakers that had been jury-rigged by Nibbles, the hamster, and a surprisingly pliable team of escaped zoo keepers.

“You know,” Aris drawled, his voice laced with the smug satisfaction of a man who had just proven his thesis, “it’s quite fascinating, really. The sympathetic resonance of certain sonic frequencies with the primal neurological pathways of… well, of whatever arcane energy you’re using to control these beasts. And, apparently,” he winked at Rexy, who was busy attempting to fan herself with a stray pterodactyl feather, “your personal preference for truly atrocious music.”

Rexy, ever the professional, struck a pose. “Darling, the audience *adores* a moment of dramatic tension. And this, my friends, is *peak* drama. Get that camera on me! Oh, wait, no cameras. Pity. Still, the sheer *performance* of it all! Malakor, you are *so* last millennium. Your aesthetic is *so* dated. Did you even *try* to coordinate your robes with your prehistoric minions?”