Eyes gone. Minds gone. Rhythm still going.

The Goblin King sits heavy on his throne, fat and unbothered, boots crushing skulls into dust with every lazy pulse of the beat. He doesn’t move much — he doesn’t need to. The rhythm moves through him.

Logic has long since rotted away. What remains is instinct, hunger, and timing. His grin twitches in time with the unseen drum, his swollen hands resting like weapons, his presence enough to keep the horde in line.

Around him, madness loops and echoes, but he is the source.
Unsettling, absurd, and impossible to ignore, this illustration captures the moment where authority becomes instinct and power becomes rhythm.

As long as he sits, the goblins dance.