11-03-2018, 12:08 AM
Everyone he loves is dead and now this godforsaken plague has taken a hold on Beqanna, and the forsaken king is angry. It has been years since anything other than loneliness and loss has coursed through his veins, but now there is anger, there is fury, there is rage, and he wants nothing more than to set those that are sick aside. The plague victims are just that—victims, and he wants them to know that. The sickened are the lesser (your own daughter is ill, you fool).
He has found this frozen wasteland by pure determination alone, and here he shall stay. The illness that resulted from raising Pangea has begun to abate (one of the reasons he knew he was free of the plague), but he is still weak; the swim took him hours when it might take a lesser horse a quarter of the time. The entire island is frosted with ice and snow and his breath puffs up around his face every time he breathes, but to him no land has seemed so welcoming since the Valley. The tufts of grass are sparse and bitter to the taste but he doesn’t need nourishment to keep him going. He is fueled by the fire in his veins, urging him to do something.
It is still night and he guides himself by the light of the moon and the ribbons of color dancing upon the sky, but he does not look up nor does he find it beautiful as some might. He has bigger and better things on his mind and he will see them through; it is the only thing that matters.
She is a ravishing vision on the rocky shore, and Oxytocin approaches her smoothly, his muscular legs carrying him swiftly through the snow. “Hello.” His greeting is not particularly warm or friendly, but from the look of her, she isn’t the warm and friendly type anyways. “Why are you here?”
Well, now we know why Oxytocin failed as both a diplomat and a king.
He has found this frozen wasteland by pure determination alone, and here he shall stay. The illness that resulted from raising Pangea has begun to abate (one of the reasons he knew he was free of the plague), but he is still weak; the swim took him hours when it might take a lesser horse a quarter of the time. The entire island is frosted with ice and snow and his breath puffs up around his face every time he breathes, but to him no land has seemed so welcoming since the Valley. The tufts of grass are sparse and bitter to the taste but he doesn’t need nourishment to keep him going. He is fueled by the fire in his veins, urging him to do something.
It is still night and he guides himself by the light of the moon and the ribbons of color dancing upon the sky, but he does not look up nor does he find it beautiful as some might. He has bigger and better things on his mind and he will see them through; it is the only thing that matters.
She is a ravishing vision on the rocky shore, and Oxytocin approaches her smoothly, his muscular legs carrying him swiftly through the snow. “Hello.” His greeting is not particularly warm or friendly, but from the look of her, she isn’t the warm and friendly type anyways. “Why are you here?”
Well, now we know why Oxytocin failed as both a diplomat and a king.