King Johan the Blackwing, first of his name, slammed the goblet on the desk, the honeyed mead sloshing and spilling over the edge and staining the pages of the terribly worded missive he was preparing to send. He sighed and rubbed his forehead, pinching the edges of the sheet in his claw and lifting it. The ink ran in black rivulets in the soaked parchment, obscuring the words.