Pangea welcomes him with open arms. The land is sick, is what most would say, but Litotes thinks there is a strange beauty to the territory. It is not in a twisted, crazed way that he finds it wondrous; it is that most cannot see past Carnage’s reign and the sharp edges mixed with swirling shadows. Pangea is beautiful like the hollowed cheeks of an aging queen, beautiful like the gentle gray of blonde hair, beautiful like the high rise of a crumbling cathedral.
And besides, the plague is everywhere now. All of Beqanna is sick.
The cremello stalks into the field, lion head held high. Various faces turn to stare nervously at an approaching predator, but most realize he is a shifter. After a moment or two of harshly studying each face, Lie slips back into his natural form. The silver on his muzzle glistens with the sweat of a run from Pangea to the Field, the grass rustles under the push of a silent wind, the gentle murmurings of a sickly crowd distract his ears.
He stares, golden eyes dark and hard. Pangea needs an army. But who can be convinced to stay?
And besides, the plague is everywhere now. All of Beqanna is sick.
The cremello stalks into the field, lion head held high. Various faces turn to stare nervously at an approaching predator, but most realize he is a shifter. After a moment or two of harshly studying each face, Lie slips back into his natural form. The silver on his muzzle glistens with the sweat of a run from Pangea to the Field, the grass rustles under the push of a silent wind, the gentle murmurings of a sickly crowd distract his ears.
He stares, golden eyes dark and hard. Pangea needs an army. But who can be convinced to stay?
