| There was something beautiful and disastrous here when the god himself, named Carnage, had mended the land. It should have been beautiful and grand. However, it had become something far from that. This land—named Pangea—is nothing but a wasteland. It harbors little amount of water and food, and if anything it is drier than anything he has known. Yet, this was the place he has come to call home. It has been years now since he has lived here. Rodrik had taken to silence when he first came here. It felt that once the mountain had come and lands had been gifted back from the fairy on the mountain there was a deep silence. A silence that made him almost feel that this was all a dream. Rodrik, never turning away from reality, did not sleep. He spent his days in isolation for a purpose. His choices always had a purpose. There had never been a time the once red king had dwelled without a plan of action. It was in the very instinct of him to always be one step ahead of the other, or whoever played his enemy that time. Rodrik was machine-like in all his ways, especially for the coming of the darkness—the thing he feared most lately. But he, for now, does not linger in the silence. He blossoms like a spring flower from the corpses of the wasteland. The stallion is a new face to perhaps many here. Maybe there would be some that knew him from the very start, but it seemed now these days, ever since the mountain came, that he does not come across those he knows. Perhaps that was a blessing for right now. Rodrik though does not focus on that; instead he turns his attention to the area of the waste that he knows many harbor. It is where the slow riverbed is most abundant in the waste, and where the eerie tune plays the loudest. |
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