± when you feel my heat, look into my eyes ±
Night came lately in the most definitive of ways, heavy, like a thick wool blanket. It hung with a presence so absolute that Killdare would swear he could feel it. One thing was different though that he hadn't noticed before, the crickets, they sang sweetly among the pine forest and he thinks maybe he had just never stopped to listen. He shakes his sooty head, the nonsense, it had been eerily quiet before the Kingdom meeting and now it wasn't, the Chamber had come alive. He knew she had, that she wouldn’t settle to lay dormant for too long, especially when there was so much going on.
The King settles into the sounds of the wood, weaving through the pines even in the dark, eyes bright as lamps with their fire. It was almost peaceful here, he laughed inwardly, this world did not know peace did it? They wouldn’t allow it to wash over the realm because they were too set on their paths to throw things wayward at the drop of a hat. Well fine, he would keep his lava eyes peeled then if that was how it were to go.
Very few in Beqanna could hold a stench akin to the sulfer and brimstone that called Killdare home. Very few indeed. This one was particularly strong, passed the depths of the Earth to levels far more magical and religious perhaps, hellfire. Well, that certainly wasn’t the case was it? Nothing smelled like that except, well except…. A charcoal brow rose on its blackened base and he growled if horses could do such, and then he charged. He melted, raging through the forest as flowing, molten earth. Tendrils of himself whipped around the trees, flinging against their rough bark and yanking him forward with new bursts of speed. He obliterated that path, surged forward singing everything yet burning down none of it, leaving only an ashy trail as evidence.
Killdare found him all right, bold as brass at his borders, returned to life or simply released from the shadows of it. He brakes then, until the last inch of lava has whipped into place from a low hanging branch and snaps back in place. He stops, but he doesn’t bother to cool, to become hardened rock to save the other from imminent death. Tannor could not die of this heat and that was almost a bloody shame. “Well, well, well,” he seethes snorting brimstone and ash into the air. “Your majesty, to what do I owe such an audience.” His words were bitter, biting even with his tongue as a proverbial whip against a fleshy back.
“I know many little shitasses Tannor, and I dare say you are king of them all.” Ah, that felt kind of good. With that little jab he molds two messengers, both panthers made entirely of magma, one to the North and one to the South. “Can’t enjoy a good tongue lashing all to myself can I? Offspring and Topsail will be overjoyed at your return, I must say.”
And then he too waits, glaring into Tannor and wishing he could burn holes where his eyes fall. What a rotten little devil he was.
The King settles into the sounds of the wood, weaving through the pines even in the dark, eyes bright as lamps with their fire. It was almost peaceful here, he laughed inwardly, this world did not know peace did it? They wouldn’t allow it to wash over the realm because they were too set on their paths to throw things wayward at the drop of a hat. Well fine, he would keep his lava eyes peeled then if that was how it were to go.
Very few in Beqanna could hold a stench akin to the sulfer and brimstone that called Killdare home. Very few indeed. This one was particularly strong, passed the depths of the Earth to levels far more magical and religious perhaps, hellfire. Well, that certainly wasn’t the case was it? Nothing smelled like that except, well except…. A charcoal brow rose on its blackened base and he growled if horses could do such, and then he charged. He melted, raging through the forest as flowing, molten earth. Tendrils of himself whipped around the trees, flinging against their rough bark and yanking him forward with new bursts of speed. He obliterated that path, surged forward singing everything yet burning down none of it, leaving only an ashy trail as evidence.
Killdare found him all right, bold as brass at his borders, returned to life or simply released from the shadows of it. He brakes then, until the last inch of lava has whipped into place from a low hanging branch and snaps back in place. He stops, but he doesn’t bother to cool, to become hardened rock to save the other from imminent death. Tannor could not die of this heat and that was almost a bloody shame. “Well, well, well,” he seethes snorting brimstone and ash into the air. “Your majesty, to what do I owe such an audience.” His words were bitter, biting even with his tongue as a proverbial whip against a fleshy back.
“I know many little shitasses Tannor, and I dare say you are king of them all.” Ah, that felt kind of good. With that little jab he molds two messengers, both panthers made entirely of magma, one to the North and one to the South. “Can’t enjoy a good tongue lashing all to myself can I? Offspring and Topsail will be overjoyed at your return, I must say.”
And then he too waits, glaring into Tannor and wishing he could burn holes where his eyes fall. What a rotten little devil he was.
KILLDARE
magma King of the Chamber
