The Council of the Damned

The chamber was vast and glimmered with light from floating orbs suspended in the air like miniature moons. The walls, made of a metallic substance that hummed softly, reflected the odd assortment of creatures seated around the circular table at its center. Each one carried centuries of grievances, and each grievance was pointed squarely at one thing: humanity.

“Order! Order in the council!” bellowed the Minotaur, his large horns glinting under the light. He slammed his fist onto the table, which shook under the weight of his frustration—and perhaps his hooves stomping nervously beneath it.

The vampire leaned back lazily in his chair, swirling the liquid in his crimson goblet. “Calm yourself, Bovar. You’ll crack the table before we’ve even started.”

Bovar snorted, nostrils flaring, his voice rising. “I will not calm myself, Draven. Do you even know what humans do to creatures like me? They eat steak! And hamburgers! And—” His voice cracked with indignation. “Ribs! Do you know what ribs are? Minotaur ribs! BEEF!”

At this, the Faun, seated two chairs down, let out a pitiful bleat. His goat-like legs shuffled uncomfortably as he leaned forward, clutching his horns in despair. “Oh, Bovar, I feel your pain! My people… oh, my people. Humans have been using us for cheese! Goat cheese! They milk us without shame and eat it with crackers and wine! And in Mexico…” His voice broke as he sniffled dramatically. “They eat cabrito! My uncle Julio never stood a chance. He was—he was—grilled!” He buried his face in his hooves, whimpering.

“Cabrito!” snapped the Minotaur, slamming his fist again. “That’s nothing compared to beef stroganoff!”

The Centaur, ever the stoic one in the group, cleared his throat and leaned forward. “If I may,” he said, his tone sharp and clipped, “I believe I speak for all equine creatures when I say that humans have committed unspeakable atrocities against us. They enslave our kind, force us to plow their fields, race for their entertainment—whip us, mind you—and then, when we’ve outlived our usefulness, they… they…” His lips curled in disgust. “They turn us into glue.”

The chamber fell silent for a moment, save for the soft hum of the glowing orbs above. The Centaur leaned back, his hooves clopping against the floor in agitation. “And don’t even get me started on gelatin. Desserts! Can you imagine? Our bones, in their desserts!”

The vampire rolled his eyes. “At least they’re not actively trying to kill you on sight,” he drawled. “Every time I so much as introduce myself, humans come at me with pitchforks and torches. And garlic, of all things! Garlic! Do you know how ridiculous it is to flee from something you’d use to season a salad?”

“Garlic?” muttered the Faun, lifting his tear-streaked face. “Try being a goat in France during cheese season.”

“Oh, enough about cheese!” snapped the Unicorn, tossing her shimmering mane with a huff. Her pearlescent horn glowed faintly as she spoke. “You don’t know true suffering until you’ve been reduced to a marketing gimmick. Do you know what humans have done to my kind? They’ve turned us into birthday cakes and glitter-covered abominations for children’s parties!” Her voice grew shrill, her hooves clattering against the polished floor. “I was once a cosmic ambassador of peace, a creature of unparalleled purity. Now? Now I’m a rainbow frappuccino!”

The doors to the chamber burst open with a loud hiss, and every creature turned to see who had interrupted their meeting. There, standing awkwardly in the doorway, was a human. A simple, wide-eyed human with a mop of disheveled hair and a look of utter confusion.

“So…” the human began, scratching the back of his head. “Uh… who do I talk to about joining this club?”