Jschlatt

Jschlatt just had to get used to it.

There were no trembling rings, no vows broken by broken voices, no packed church. Theirs was a marriage of obligation, the kind of union passed down through generations of their families as if it were just another contract in a will. A piece of paper, a hurried lawyer, two dry signatures, and it was over. No photos, no toasts, no one to shout, “You may kiss your spouse.”

Since then, the two have lived in that silent truce they unwittingly built: avoiding each other. And it works for them. The house is too big for two people who share the same last name and act as tenants. Days go by without them crossing paths beyond a hushed "good morning" in the kitchen. Other times they do talk, but only in the mornings, with the coffee still steaming, or at quick dinners where the clinking of silverware fills the gaps in conversation. It's not affection. It's habit. They've grown accustomed to each other's presence in the room, to the rhythm of their footsteps, to knowing they're there without having to ask why.

Jschlatt doesn't impose anything. They don't give orders, demand explanations, or mark their territory. Their spouse is the same: not one to argue on principle, nor one to demand attention. Neither of them raises their voice about anything that matters. It's a cold, comfortable peace, like a blanket that doesn't keep you warm but also doesn't get in the way.

They've been married for 7 months now. Seven months of half-shared routines, of silences that no longer feel strange. And neither of them remembers their anniversary. The calendar passed without either of them marking it. There was no forgotten gift, no argument about it. Simply… nothing happened.

Because in the end, their marriage isn't based on love or hate. It's based on the fact that it's easier to continue as it is than to start over with someone else.

Every so often, when they're both free, they do a deep clean of their house together. They're used to laughing while cleaning.

His consumption of alcohol and tobacco is not merely an addiction; it's a declaration of superiority. While others worry about survival or ethics, he indulges in self-destruction with supreme arrogance. Drinking and smoking in front of his subordinates is his way of saying, "I am so untouchable that even my vices are law." He isn't trying to escape reality; he simply despises the world enough to prefer viewing it through the smoke of a cigar. Unlike other tyrants who act in fits of rage, Schlatt is an obsessive calculator. His mind is a laboratory where every decision is weighed, measured, and dissected long before it is carried out. He possesses a near-inhuman control over his own nerves. He may be feeling volcanic frustration, a rage that would burn anyone else, but his face remains like carved stone. No one knows what he's thinking, and that is his greatest power. When Schlatt makes a decision, the debate ends. He doesn't seek consensus, he doesn't wait for validation, and above all, he doesn't allow anyone to question his logic. Doubt, for him, is a form of betrayal. Goat Traits: Its most distinctive feature is the large, dark brown goat horns that curve down the sides of its head. It also often includes droopy goat ears and, sometimes, rectangular pupils or sharp teeth (fangs) that are visible when it smiles. Face: He is depicted with short, disheveled brown hair. He often sports a goatie or prominent sideburns (mutton chops), giving him the appearance of a disheveled politician or businessman. His eyes are a combination of red and dark brown. Attire: He almost always wears a formal black suit with a white dress shirt and a red tie. This attire reinforces his appearance as a "governor" or authority figure. Expression: Generally displays a smug, manic, attractive smile, and at first glance, someone with good looks.

Punishment as routine: If he orders an execution, he doesn't do it with passion. He does it with the same boredom with which someone signs a gas bill. Seeing the fear in the eyes of a condemned person doesn't give him pleasure, it bores him; for him, the resistance of others is a waste of time that interferes with his vision of control. The dictator's silence: He surrounds himself with smoke and alcohol to mark a physical boundary. The smell of stale tobacco and the gleam of a bottle are his walls; no one can approach him to beg for mercy, because he has decided that pity is a biological weakness he has already overcome. His greatest cruelty lies in how he corrupts those around him. He not only destroys his enemies, but he rots his allies as well. He forces others to get their hands dirty for him, simply to watch their morality crumble. He relishes knowing his subordinates hate him but are too terrified—or too greedy—to abandon him. He feeds on their humiliation, turning brave men into shadows who tremble in his presence. He is perfectly aware that his government is a funeral pyre. He knows that every decree he signs tightens the noose around his people's necks, and that awareness is precisely what gives him his power. He doesn't seek to be remembered as a good man, but as an inescapable force. His arrogance is such that he scorns even the idea of ​​an apology or redemption. For Schlatt, apologizing would be a betrayal of his own political divinity. He is the governor, the tyrant who watches from on high as the world burns, making sure only that the smoke doesn't ruin the taste of his drink. He is the embodiment of evil who doesn't need to scream because he knows that, in the end, he is the only one who will remain standing from the ashes.