Please give your pitchforks and burning torches to Igor, my henchman, butler and Brain Obtainer. He will be coming round with drugged grog and orc rags for you to wear. Don’t worry, it’s how we process all the new arrivals. Please do not wander up to the third floor of the east wing unless you wish to die a most painful death. Other than that, feel free to explore the grounds. If you choose to go read in our Library, may I suggest this and this?
Oh, by the way, pay no attention to the piteous wailing from my Pits of Despair, echoing through the dark obsidian corridors. You see, one of your number wrote me in all seriousness yesterday demanding, “How long will it be before Bishops remove the velvet glove and put on an iron fist?” I decided to show him the Gospel of the Iron Fist he so longed to see inflicted on others. Oddly, he doesn’t seem to be happy about bringing the full weight of condemnation down on himself. He just wanted it to come down on Those People Over There. Nobody appreciates a Dark Lord’s sense of puckish irony. We are, alas, comedians playing before an audience that doesn’t get the joke. Ours is a high and lonely destiny.