11-28-2016, 08:34 PM
He finds beauty in conquered things.
In between the scarred, gray thighs of those razed cliffsides, slow and thick, the only wetness for miles gurgles along in a thin, grey line that splits the kingdom in two. Around the perimeter edges of the gorge, within the tight and twisted corridors of scaly rock, where the wind whistles in earthy tongues.
Sad, angry, vengeful.
Conquered.
When Carnage left it could not be doubted that some of those shackles were loosed. Like a disease, contained and expunged from the body, his leaving had allowed Pangea to… grow. Stunted and sluggish, but because Her will is great, that rotten earth had incubated treason in every seed he had stilled. Slowly, as winter pulled away its icy grip and began to fill that slow and thick stream with new meltwater, sprouts began to reach from the ground like many undead fingers.
It works well enough for him.
He has mouths to feed that cannot be sated on dust alone.
He follows that slimey water across the endlessness that is his and its quiet drives him to distraction; the grayness of it reminds him that it could use a little colour.
(Blue, green, gold, red.)
He follows it until he meets the violent nothing of ocean on one side, crashing against the sick skin of his kingdom’s feet, far below.
The salt in the air reminds him of disappointment and a distant, quaking memory draws him from the edge and sends him back across the wastes to wander.
But, so like a hound, today he scents her.
Of course he does. Before he was a king, he was a huntsman.
“Hello,” he resists that primal urge to sneak up on her, instead he comes to her as he is. Dirty wing dragging like a snake belly in the dust at his left; his great horns – like a brutal and crudely-made crown – curving away from his forehead; rich and ruddy gold, those black eyes like flat stones eyeing her appraisingly. “Can I help you?”
In between the scarred, gray thighs of those razed cliffsides, slow and thick, the only wetness for miles gurgles along in a thin, grey line that splits the kingdom in two. Around the perimeter edges of the gorge, within the tight and twisted corridors of scaly rock, where the wind whistles in earthy tongues.
Sad, angry, vengeful.
Conquered.
When Carnage left it could not be doubted that some of those shackles were loosed. Like a disease, contained and expunged from the body, his leaving had allowed Pangea to… grow. Stunted and sluggish, but because Her will is great, that rotten earth had incubated treason in every seed he had stilled. Slowly, as winter pulled away its icy grip and began to fill that slow and thick stream with new meltwater, sprouts began to reach from the ground like many undead fingers.
It works well enough for him.
He has mouths to feed that cannot be sated on dust alone.
He follows that slimey water across the endlessness that is his and its quiet drives him to distraction; the grayness of it reminds him that it could use a little colour.
(Blue, green, gold, red.)
He follows it until he meets the violent nothing of ocean on one side, crashing against the sick skin of his kingdom’s feet, far below.
The salt in the air reminds him of disappointment and a distant, quaking memory draws him from the edge and sends him back across the wastes to wander.
But, so like a hound, today he scents her.
Of course he does. Before he was a king, he was a huntsman.
“Hello,” he resists that primal urge to sneak up on her, instead he comes to her as he is. Dirty wing dragging like a snake belly in the dust at his left; his great horns – like a brutal and crudely-made crown – curving away from his forehead; rich and ruddy gold, those black eyes like flat stones eyeing her appraisingly. “Can I help you?”
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)