Throwing ideas around…without hitting any1

It was a wet and stormy night.

At the beginning of the ceremony, the announcement had come with the high tones of a First Class Processor:
‘Count Vichyinsky, Lord of Terra Nova, Epicureus Sincreticus and Maximus Praefectus of the Magna Carta Orbium’.
The tall figure had moved majestically to the middle of the hall.
‘How fabulous’ the Arctic Circle’s Prefect had uttered in front of all guests ‘for you to be finally here…’ a slight nod of his huge head, heavy with implants, linked directly to the palace’s defence system and a swarm of military drones, all currently buzzing around the Southern Wing.

Fast-forward only two hours, and the devastation was utter and overwhelming…bodies everywhere, the blood already turning dark, the polished marble floor slick with bodily fluids.

A single, solitary figure was hunched upon the lifeless body of one of the attackers.

‘Latrones…y marranos’ he said gouging out eyes from the dead, empty sockets….

…arpidistra growing satisfactorily arround alla arround…around, around damn it! Can you even frippgginng type…frigging type? Type, goddamit!

Nicht so gut, natürlich…vem är jag, sitter här och pratar skit mot vinden — mais vraiment, quién soy yo? Who am I Count?