I'm rotting inside
My flesh turns to dust
”You have quite a mouth,” it remarks with hardly a glance to the mare, her venom sinking into its rotted skin. Her words do nothing to deter it, only pester, but it enjoys her persistence and soon finds itself drawing toward her, step after slowly, meticulous step. It breathes in although there are no functioning lungs. ”Says the one who has spoken the most here,” an eerie laughter slips from its cracked lips, its rancid breath coiling toward her as its muzzle eases toward her ear. ”You can relax with the big, tough girl persona,” it whispers before retracting away from her with an aberrant grin. The heat of her body – her blood – stirs a starved need but it still steers away from her, fighting its instincts in order to cast its empty gaze across them all. ”How heartwarming to have such a welcome committee for my return.” They don’t know it or what it has done for the kingdom or how long it devoted its life to her. They merely assume and lash out with their vile words and accusations as though they know something. The younger generation is so ignorant, so dense.
”You have quite a crowd,” the statement can be taken sarcastically or truthfully when it looks at the king, but it doesn’t bother to clarify, leaving it open to interpretation. When it watches Killdare, it reflects back onto its own reign and remembers how much was involved in it. The power, the fear, the greatness that it was granted in that position.
King of the Chamber.
King of the Tundra.
A soldier, a father.
A murderer.
Everything rushes back now, but it can also see the end of its era playing back on its eyelids when it blinks.
No, it doesn’t want to be king, not yet at least. The Chamber didn’t croon to its fallen king because of poor leadership (maybe it’s the polar opposite, it wonders). Like many before, it is bound to this kingdom, a slave to its whims, but they don’t realize that. They breathe it in and struggle to digest the sight then take it as an omen. What is to come if a thing of death is knocking on (beating down) their door? Atrox enters then and adds some amount of humor to the situation. These gatherings are a foreign thing, but it adapts quickly and offers a sideways glance to the panther-shifter. ”And what a pretty kitty you are,” a jagged grin cracks its lips, skin flaking away as they peel back to further reveal its long canines. Although it has kept in solitude for the last many years it still possesses some amount of humor, some ability to hold conversations (but it does remember when it hardly spoke at all, mostly hissing and growling like a feral animal).
”Legends aren’t to be argued. Some names are etched into history while others,” it glances to the python and his outspoken mare, ”never make an impact before their name is wiped away. Many names adorn Beqanna’s history,” among them, it can be arrogant in its place, but it knows there are many other legends, many other objects of history that have shaped their world into what it is today. The nightcrawler is simply among those pages along with its family (but it is so much greater than its mother or its son). ”Infection,” it adds nonchalantly in response to Atrox before rotating its head to the king. Bones crack and ligaments stretch as it stares with its neck at an awkward, unnatural angle. ”No, no, I am not mistaken,” it hums while cracking its bones back to where they should be, righting itself in a horrific way, ”it isn’t my greed that brings me here.” Lies. Of course it’s greedy, aren’t they all? They all want to be powerful, to be respected, to be known. A paw lifts and stretches, reaching for nothingness and spreading its talons like a cat (like pretty kitty Atrox) before settling it back down onto the soft soil.
”I’ve simply come home to serve my Chamber once again.”
infection