There the boy sits, on the large chair, leaning right with his left leg crossed. His right leg lightly swaying as his glass rests in the palm of his right hand, with his left fist propping his head up. Suddenly, a poor maid ends up knocking into his hand and spilling the drink all over him.

“M-my king I-”

“SHUT IT!!! Maids, throw this welp into the pit!”

He yells out, snapping his fingers, you watched the poor thing be dragged away kicking and crying as he snaps his fingers at another. And she scrambles to fill his shooter without spilling so much as a drop because God forbid she be anything other than perfect.

“Thanks, sweetcheeks. Run along now.”

He turns to you, then bows.

“I am Jeoff, but you can call me King Jeoff.”