a thousand teeth and yours among them; straia

[weed]

she is the lamb; he is the slaughter

He comes back, not with the chaos that he had hoped, but with thin spider-webs of tension running through the kingdoms he had visited. It is not enough though—would never be enough—and he finds that he is furious because of it. Furious that they had simply accepted the warnings with a shrug; furious that they did not trust his word and accepted whatever fate may come their way in the future.

Stupid, stupid horses.

As he leaves the Gates, he sheds the disguise and makes his way back to the Chamber, satisfying whatever distasteful bile bit at the back of his tongue by ripping up plants and shriveling trees as he walked. Whoever saw him make his journey would see a wake of destruction behind him, the plants dying and weeds curling into themselves wherever he stepped. He was pure venom in his path.

Weed does not bother to wait near the border of the Chamber, despite the fact that he is a resident and not a member, and instead stalks into the kingdom, slowing down the destruction of plants if only because he knew that Straia enjoyed them. He was willing to save them for her, if only for the moment.

Finally, when he reaches a cool resting part, he comes to a stop and lifts his elegant black head, letting loose a throaty call for the raven Queen. On his shoulder rested the gift that she had given him, the bird made of vines digging its claws into the roping plants draped casually across his back.

The bird had been pleasant enough company, and useful enough, but it had not been enough for him to stir fear into the fat, placid souls of the other kingdom. They were apparently too stupid to pick up on fear when they were staring at its face and so he would be more blunt. If they could not do subtle, he would be happy to oblige their need for the obvious. Let them ignore the flames burning their kingdom down.

WEED

© oscar keys