It wasn't outrageously odd for nobles to be presented with various birds and beasts as tributes, given the popularity and the extra income that well-maintained menageries could bring. The humblest aristocrats at least had a small farm or ranch with half-tamed Hedgehog Pies or Yans to show off to their peers, but the more grandiose was generally reserved for only the richest and most flamboyant; it was far too taxing for anyone but royalty to manage such extensive zoological grounds as Alexandria's renowned 'Exotic Gardens,' for instance, though that didn't deter the upper class from competing over who had the better collection (even if it bankrupted them in the end).
The nature of menageries the beasts ended up in, however, differed greatly depending on to whom they were presented. The aforementioned Exotic Gardens appeared as if someone had taken a patch of Gaia's most unmolested wilderness and dropped it smack dab in the middle of Alexandra; every flowering plant and shrub was meticulously cared for, and the animals hosted, for the most part, had free range. Setting foot inside the gardens was almost like walking into another world entirely - an Eden that did not exist outside of the sanctuary's arches, a day's respite for the wealthy and poor alike.
If Alexandria was paradise, then Treno was hell.
"Next!"
As full as debauchery as the Dark City was up above, it was unthinkably worse underground. Patrons checked their morality at the door, abandoning manners and pleasantries for excessive lust - for carnality, for violence, for anything one could desire, at a price they could afford. This was a world of cages and bars, of rough stone floors and pits where all the worst of humanity was put on display. Centrally connected to the kennels and the arenas and match-cages all was a mock-up of a royal court, adorned with marble and ivory and a few hundred "nobles" clustered around the throne, all incognito as if at a masquerade. Anonymity released all inhibitions, after all, and this, too, was a sort of respite - a momentary lapse into fantasy where all of one's responsibilities slipped from existence. Only their Lord King remained unmasked.
The crowd was split straight down the middle in an aisle that lead to the throne, a sort of makeshift catwalk down which all the world's curiosities were paraded. Foreign princes and dukes and sheiks and chieftains came for perpetual indulgence, and they brought with them the wildest gifts; hounds that could light themselves aflame, shrieking plants that tore themselves from the ground to search for wetter soil, fantastic gadgets and gizmos and bounties of exotic meats and vegetables and anything anyone could imagine all laid out in offering. Nearly-nude servants ran back and forth from room to room, arranging temporary quarters for the living things and stashing the rest where they could, either in one of many kitchens or some other storeroom where it could be contemplated later.
"Prince Erid of Valdeaunia," read the jester on his left, "may approach the Lord King."
In stereo: "Approach the Lord King, Prince Erid of Valdeaunia may."
And said Prince Someone of Whatever (bound to be an alias, anyway) stepped forth, flanked by a small company of his own servants. They did their fair share of bowing and sucking up and flowery presentation before finally getting to the point after a few seconds of the Lord King's gesturing get on with it, damn you, and from the rear of the party came another flock of servants, leading a hideously muscled, vaguely bovine monstrosity to the front of the catwalk, to the oohs and aahs of the drunken crowd.
"And what do you call this?" If the Lord King was at all impressed, he went to great lengths to hide it by sounding bored out of his fucking mind.
"The Great Buffalo, Himinrjot, Your Majesty. From the steep, ice-slicked mountains of Uleguerand-"
"Brilliant, next."
To the deafening tittering of all in attendance, the prince's mouth stayed open in shock for a moment, but he knew as well as any other that there was no arguing with the Lord King. The Hmmnbfhjrtjhnbluh was exchanged from servants to servants, led off to an empty cage, and the party from Valyawwwwwwnnnnn politely excused themselves to flock to the West Wing where the gladiators did battle.
"Gaston Robin-"
"Ooh. He's good."
"-may approach the Lord King."
"Approach the Lord King, Gaston Robin may."
The parade went on like a well-oiled machine, with the next party entering at exactly the same pace as those leaving, and almost the same amount of bowing and sucking up-
"Gaston," His Majesty interrupted, and the greasy, robust rat at the fore of the party glanced up with a yellowed grin. "Please. Are we not familiar enough by now to skip the frills?"
"Of course, milord. Jes' don' wanna seem all dis-ree-spec'f'l." Turning to the rest of his band, the rat shouted a hoarse command that sent his entourage - all freaks that would be right at home in the North Wing cages - into a chaotic scramble. It was their regular routine, and per usual it was broken up only by Gaston angrily jabbing his unhealthily-ornate cane at the lot of them until they coughed up the goods; a hush fell over the court, not out of awe but of complete puzzlement. For a moment, it looked like nothing more than a bundle of chains and the thick wooden planks that held them together, topped with a black cloth like a hood and held upright by two elephantine strongmen.
"What have you brought me, Gaston?" Equal puzzlement and eager curiosity. The rat gave a chortle that sounded every bit as oily as his fur and stepped forward to yank off the hood, and for the first time the mass of steel displayed characteristics of a living thing. Shocks of blue that looked like part of a mane were tangled in the links, and the thing's head, or as much as the Lord King could see of it, moved a little in the rat's direction. All he could make out were the ears, pointed like a hound's and studded with the earrings of a slave, and what little pale flesh peeked out from the leather wrappings that kept it blind; its jaw looked humanoid, but the steel bridle made it difficult to tell anything beyond that.
"An 'orrible 'bominayshun," Gaston spat with a ringleader's enthusiasm, "th' bastid of a MONSTER anna 'uman, some'in right out'va nightmare, ainnat right, y' savage?" He struck the captive's torso hard with his cane and got a flinch in reward. "A wildman," he continued, "fromma 'No Man's Land,' where oooonly th' meanest an' nastiest beasties survive!"
He turned to the Lord King with a knowing glint. "Kinay show ya?"
Get on with it, damn you.
One of the other troupe members passed a key to Gaston, and that was passed onto one of the strongmen; a click, and the chains started to fall away like shed snakeskin, revealing more and more of the human-monster-abomination-nightmare beneath. There wasn't much to look at, honestly; he had expected fur (or mange) and claws and spikes and something - something utterly bizarre, but this "person" looked no different than any of the people in his court. If this was a prank, he was not at all amused - but then, Gaston did usually bring him the nicest little surprises. His disbelief would stay suspended.
"Occourse, 'e still got 'is mask on, dunnie?" The last length of iron clattered to the floor with a tug, taking enough matted hair with it to force a strained sound from the captive. It was a lot more animated now, testing the shackles that remained on its forearms, calves, and neck, and turning its head towards whatever noise caught its attention. It seemed to sense that there was a hand hovering near its face and regarded it with all the ire of a cobra ready to strike, but it was an idle threat; the leather came off without incident, but the crowd still responded with a dull roar of oohs, except for the few tipsy ladies in the corner that just burst into giggles for no reason whatsoever.
Then he lunged.
The crowd exploded into laughter, then, because unfortunately for the man-beast-thing, his attempt at escape - or brutal mutilation of all parties involved - was cut short by the shackles, the planks holding them together, and the strongmen on either side that could very easily knock him out with a hard backhand. Deterred (for now, at least), he went still, gold eyes flicking around wildly to take in the crowd and the bastards that took him here - and, for a lengthier moment, the regal-looking man lounging in the throne before him. Blue eyes full of amusement regarded him in turn.
"Y'see? Wild, ain'tie? 'e's a real brute ivy'ask'n me. The strength of ten minnatars! Lookit 'is claws, like dragin's claws, annis teef," the cane clacked against the steel bit in the slave's mouth, "like kek-tu-ar needles, ready ta rend and shred and KILL-!"
"Let's see him break free, then."
"-like a-whut?"
Dead silence. With all eyes on the Lord King, he shrugged as casually as if he had just asked for a glass of water. "I'd say ten minotaurs could easily break those chains, wouldn't you?"
"..Whut...whut're y'askin-"
"Oh come now, it's not that difficult!" He uncrossed his legs and stood up from his throne, walking straight up to the bound prisoner and reaching - despite the embellished proclamation that this "wildman" could apparently tear off his hand and swallow it whole - to grasp his collar. A rough jerk, and the thing growled at him, not like an animal but like a man who was fully willing to beat the ever-living shit out of the asshole jerking on his collar-
"Show me what you can do, wildman."
Another jolt and the Lord King let go, but stayed close enough to smell the sweat off the knotted blue rat's nest of hair; his presence alone egged the monster-man to fight his fetters, but Gaston simply couldn't leave well enough alone, either. The rat's cane came down in sharp thwacks against the wildman's shoulders, ivory points digging fresh wounds into already-scarred skin, and though the strongmen held the planks firmly in place, something began to yield.
"Y' 'eard 'im, y'bastid!" THWACK. "Move it!" THWACK. "Y'savage!" THWACK.
The chains began to groan with tension. THWACK.
"Y'monster! Y'beastie! Y'cur!"
One ill-aimed strike against the side of his face made him twist in a way his elbow disagreed with, but something gave - and the next crack wasn't from the cane but from the middle of one of the planks-
"Y'animal!"
-and the plank splintered in three pieces when the weakest link broke, freeing both arms and whipping the remaining length of the chain straight across Gaston's face hard enough to send him to the floor. The beast-man was fast - but not fast enough to grab the Lord King by the throat like he'd wanted, only clawing at air and missing with the stub of chain that threatened to strike his captor's nose. A wasted effort; Gaston was down but not out, and he was going to be angry enough to have the strongmen knock him out and do a number on his unconscious body and-he didn't have much time-
"Yhouuuuuu leetle sunovabeetch, yhou!"
Having failed to land a fatal blow he turned his claws at his own face instead, fingers curling around the links of the bridle and pulling, pulling, pulling while he choked himself straining against the collar; the bars began to bend, searing red marks and will-be-bruises across his jaw and cheeks, and sharp pain lit up his gums where the bit seemed to be about to break his teeth, but he pulled, harder, harder, until his mouth foamed over and filled with blood and he could feel-it-BREAK-
"IT'S SAIX."
The cane's toothed handle tore a three-inch gash in his temple when it bashed him out cold.
By now the crowd's wild cheering, which had hit a crescendo rivalled only by the cheers reserved for the bloodiest pit fights, had died down to hushed murmurs and tsks. Gaston jabbed at him once, twice to make sure he was done, then straightened up and calmly adjusted his cravat.
"So sirry, milord, dinnuh wan'nt'h-"
"No need."
"-'ll 'av'im skinned alive f'Y'er Majesty, tan 'im 'n mak'im inna some boots, gut 'im an' turn 'im inna gumbo-"
"No need," the Lord King repeated, motioning for a couple of nearby servants to pick up the felled beast, the chains, and splinters all. "I want him washed, dressed, and given the marble chamber - what's in there now, then? The Lamiae? Slay them and roast them for supper."
The look on the rat's face put an ear-to-ear smile on his own. It almost didn't seem to match the dangerous glimmer in his eyes, the sort of look that seemed to promise reward and eternal punishment at once, until he leaned in close to Gaston and dropped his voice to a pleased, rumbling purr.
"I like him."