![]() ![]() “Wait, which passages did you hear the sound?” No, its best that the dead can’t walk or spy on the living who knows what shameful secrets they might learn after death. If Diamond knew the man who killed him sought sympathy from pigs, he would roll over in his grave. This is the man the Mad Queen hired? The one who dealt the final blow, ending his predecessor’s life. The once calm collected mercenary rants in a whisper to which ever pig gives notice. Torches placed at every corner flicker in his bulging eyes. “You don’t care, but someone got to! And since the fat man out there is chained up, that leaves me! So, if you’re high and mightiness would be so kind, STOP YOUR LOLLYGAGGING IN THE TUNNELS!” “Every time I drag myself down here, you ramble on and on about the damn pigs.” “They rile up the dragons, which scare the pigs more, then they don’t eat and get skinny. “I’m not judging, don’t care-but for the love of Ferus stop scaring the pigs!” He points the ladle accusingly. Running through the tunnels, like some madman.” He pours a spoonful of slop into the pigs gaping maws. “What are you rambling about now?” He asks, ignoring the piglets whining against the makeshift gate. Or it would have it he didn’t slosh through the feces and mud to the door holding a bucket of slop and a ladle. The narrow features and thin moustache and goatee give him a dignified appearance. The vibrant bandana keeps his dark locks from his face. And Tyrann, a bitter resentful, shepherd. A crumbling tomb, the lid ajar, sits in the center of the pig kingdom. Tyrann with his pants rolled to his knees, stands among the pigs. The ramblings continue between squeals and stopping of cloven hooves, drawing Remo into one of the abandoned rooms off the main chamber. He’s fortunate, his usefulness keeps him from becoming the beasts next meal. Remo’s patience with his boorish demeanor is dwindling. “Glad to see yer generalship has graced us with his presence.” Sneers a brash voice from the far side of the space. They’re lazy, but he isn’t a fool, they’re merely buying their time. With no room to swing the spiked tail or massive wings, they’re immobile. Which is why he built their cramped space is cramped into the passageways. Their strength, if there’s space to move, will easily break their cages. The black ones, large and heavy, are quiet, but watchful. They unsettle him the most, if one gets a hold of their prey, the rest swarm. Always watching, waiting for one of them to approach the bars, then it’s a swipe of a claw or a snap of a jaw. They slither over the bars with their wings folded. The iron cages climbing to the dome ceiling houses the scrawny golden eyed scarlet dragons. The architecture alone, specifically the cramped spaces and narrow tunnels, ensures the beasts stay put. It’s a sad camp housed under the streets, but the underground provides the cover he needs. Stacks of firewood and other supplies are organized in boxes and neat piles. ![]() But like any master, it’ll be on his terms.īroken altars and cracked stone tombs crawl up the far wall. He dismisses their futile attempts to intimidate, knowing they’ll soon get their wish. An insertion that they haven’t relinquished their freedom. The bars rattle, their heavy chains clank, reminding him their prison is only a temporary state of existence. Torches and diminishing fire pits offer enough light to see the beasts but not make it comfortable. The roar echoes as he enters the rotunda, a place once used by priest to commit the dead to their burial is now crammed with reinforced iron cages. Clenching his jaw he steels himself as he approaches the flickering beacon at the end of the passage. The grumbling rolls over his body, but he fights the trembling crawling up his spine. It knocks loose dirt from above, and the dust sticks to his sweaty skin. The sound, disgruntled and impatient, vibrates the ground under him. The dripping disappears, vanishing like a nightmare, only to have a cacophony of growling usurp it. Each step towards his destination contorts his body it’s a struggle between the mud, the stench, and the low ceiling. The air is hot, acrid and clings to his nostrils. It pools under a forgotten ribcage discarded over the muddy stone. A steady trickle of water echoes in the land of the dead. Underfoot, bones as old as kingdoms, crunch under his boots. The bleach skulls gleam in his torchlight, their menacing contorting faces grimacing as he squeezes through the narrow burial chamber. Hundreds of vacant eye sockets peer at him from their final resting place. ![]()
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