I'm rotting inside
My flesh turns to dust
The Tundra. It doesn't whisper into its ear as the Chamber had but it's still drawn to the frigid hills and snow-capped mountains. It knows that it left behind a legacy, a dynasty. Its bloodline has run thickly in the successors but an odd feeling wraps over the deathcrawler that guides its steps toward the frozen wasteland.
It knows the border well enough as well as the land itself. It once ruled these parts, so many years ago.
Decades, but it feels like centuries.
A ragged breath is drawn into its reborn lungs when it pushes further into the frosty winds. Its unruly locks whip to and fro but it almost doesn't seem to feel the ice biting its skin. Everything is numb; its heart, its flesh, its mind. It has been rejuvenated but lacks any emotional ties that would make it truly alive.
Infection is a walking corpse.
But no one can tell just yet.
The biting wind carries a scent. Its senses are acute, adapted as any predatory instinct, and it takes minimal effort to find the stallion waiting to be acknowledged. With footsteps muffled by both snow and pads Infection draws near. Plumes of hot breath coil from its nostrils when it stops with a brow lifted in curiosity. "Welcome to the Tundra," it rasps with a voice that has been neglected, "Are you looking to be a part of the brotherhood or simply take up air?" A sickened green stare meets the stallion's before breaking away to look further into the kingdom where it sees minimal activity.
Perhaps another prime moment for the taking.
infection