Congratulations Heavy Metal Queen!

The razorgrass fields will crackle and burn, their pods bursting occasionally into the air, sending out trails of sparks that will glitter off towards the horizon.  As you turn to Helmut your hair will swish around your body, partially lending itself to the steel obscuring your breasts.  Helmut, who will clearly have been staring out of the corner of his eye, will bring his gaze up to yours.

"Yes, Battlemistress?"

You'll point down the hill, to the screaming mob advancing towards you, possessions clutched above their heads, tears in their eyes.  The mob will look terrified.

"Take those who can work as slaves.  The rest, put to the choice."

He'll nod, silently, and move to carry out your command with the surviving members of your honor guard.  The choice, death by steel or death by fire, won't be much of one, but it'll be important that your new subjects have the opportunity to make it, however briefly they are under your care.  You, as the Metalatrix of this corner of Rockalyptica, consider freedom a paramount quality of your realm, what separates your brand of violence and oppression from that of the barbarians to the south.

As Helmut and his men work methodically, pulling out those they think can survive the winter in your camp, those who they think can be conditioned and trained to serve or fight under your banner, your mind will wander back to the day you were transported to Rockalyptica.  That fateful Lordi concert, where you stood and threw the horns at just the right moment, as a stadium edge collapsed and the blood of the virgins that danced beneath it and stood above upon it mixed and the Gods of Metal accepted the sacrifice and chose, in that instant, to open up a rift between the world of imagination that fuels the sound of metal and the world of flesh that binds and grounds its wanton destruction.

You survived the bloody scrum that ensued thanks largely to the Krav Maga training your dad forced you to take when you were younger.  When the dust settled you stood, clothes tattered, fists bloody, among the few remaining fans.  They knelt to you, that fateful thirteen, and from them you formed the core of an army that has, since then, taken inch by inch of territory back from demons and fools stumbling about a primal and deadly world where each and every aspect is born from the psyche of the scions of metal music.

Of those thirteen, only five remain.  Helmut is the one you trust the least, the one you keep closest to yourself.  You know one day he'll turn on you, but for now you use him, keep him at arm's length, ride into battle with him.  If Helmut is your greatest threat and he remains leashed at your feet, after all, what do you need to fear?  When even the gods tremble at your approach, as you leash their followers and burn their idols, what man could you fear, even if that man was once the finest civil engineer in Helsinki, even if that man used to be your boyfriend?

As Helmut drags the line of slaves up the mountain you'll let out a fearsome howl, one that will make Helmut turn his head towards the earth.  The slaves will follow his gesture.  They'll be faster learners, this group.  Helmut will have chosen well.

Congratulations Heavy Metal Queen!