Like winter coldness, civil wars spread, seeping throughout the frozen wastelands, voiced by howling winds. Despite the icy bloodshed, the snowy realms had a certain beauty to them.
Hatefully affixed to the purple flame, Malus trudged knee-deep through snow. Eyes like balls of ice, as if frozen hatred that nothing could melt, Malus approached, armour clinking.
“Lord Sudaro hated Clan Gern, though the civil war of Lord Vovolga is a creation of impending slaughter. The other great clans...Mortis, Turtas, Tilvus, Paleda...I don’t know if they would be ready for eruptions of civil war and mass bloodshed,” Malus spat as he approached the fur-clothed elder--yet his royal Elven blood offered a tinge of politeness even so. “Yet, here you are, unfazed by the rebels of Seda or Linkuva loyalists, nor by ice-blooded nature. Though, further bloodshed awaits amongst those who oppose Vampires and Drow... You cannot be a mere beggar. A shaman, sorcerer, perhaps?”
Malus stopped nearby, glassy eyes locked with the elder’s as he stabbed Warpsword into the snow. “You must know these parts well. I desire to leave this frozen boredom...slaughter craves the southerners. They must be handed an offensive nature to expand bloodshed for the sake of Vovolga, Mirta and Sudaro.” His grip tightened around his hilt. Teeth clenched, brow furrowed, Malus’ eyes intensified. “May you share me the quickest directions to the south?”
08-Oct-2021 04:45:51