The Mad Kings of Solo
Thus went the game ...
... down the long dynasty of madmen, of solo kings which no one yet saw an end of as if they would never run out of pieces to play this giant game of loss. The controllers of this destiny would survey the pieces strewn across the great tactical board, a map of their world, their arena of doombringing and although it was true, they would not admit to it. For all they had to do in the Old Blood Wood was take an axe in hand and chop down another tree and then take a knife and carve yet more pieces for their hellish game and some say that when they cut and carved that wood the tree bled sap a dark and blackish red for nobody really knew the age of the trees or where they came from or the mystery contained within.
The King's place is at his map, with his pieces at his fingertips he is the puppeteer of his own downfall. Setting waypoints so blind to what lies ahead that the fog of war resembles a twisted and dark tree-grove and each jump behind enemy stargates could mean a broken piece and a return to the map. He knows that the eyes are watching his every move and black leaves swirl about him and carry with him the secrets that he brings into the shadows.
The Kings knew that so few would now choose this way of life and the new generations were lost to the fleet like rats fighting for mother's milk. But so new to the game and wanting of content so badly and so quick that the milk was so diluted, infested, weak and devoid of nutrients, so much so that they blinded themselves from the true purpose.
This New Generation do not carve their own game pieces nor care how the pieces are carved. Sure enough they are led by kings, but not a king cut from the same cloth. They ravage the lands in a different way and for the mad solo kings this will always be an estranged way of life.
Tributes paid in red gold. Lands conquered and defended. The solo kings have no desire for such a life.
The solo king's calling is a battle it can not win but one that it does, even if he loses. Aggressive, teeth showing, fighting to the death and all the time the treetops are whipping up a frenzy by these war-winds and the clouds of night darken and the blood-festival begins and the screaming hayabusa sings and swoops and the heart of the solo king burns and beats like a drum in the midst of a great battle.
It beats louder than that of his foe.
And thus went the game .... when the battle is over and the pieces lay broken.
MB.
... down the long dynasty of madmen, of solo kings which no one yet saw an end of as if they would never run out of pieces to play this giant game of loss. The controllers of this destiny would survey the pieces strewn across the great tactical board, a map of their world, their arena of doombringing and although it was true, they would not admit to it. For all they had to do in the Old Blood Wood was take an axe in hand and chop down another tree and then take a knife and carve yet more pieces for their hellish game and some say that when they cut and carved that wood the tree bled sap a dark and blackish red for nobody really knew the age of the trees or where they came from or the mystery contained within.
The King's place is at his map, with his pieces at his fingertips he is the puppeteer of his own downfall. Setting waypoints so blind to what lies ahead that the fog of war resembles a twisted and dark tree-grove and each jump behind enemy stargates could mean a broken piece and a return to the map. He knows that the eyes are watching his every move and black leaves swirl about him and carry with him the secrets that he brings into the shadows.
The Kings knew that so few would now choose this way of life and the new generations were lost to the fleet like rats fighting for mother's milk. But so new to the game and wanting of content so badly and so quick that the milk was so diluted, infested, weak and devoid of nutrients, so much so that they blinded themselves from the true purpose.
This New Generation do not carve their own game pieces nor care how the pieces are carved. Sure enough they are led by kings, but not a king cut from the same cloth. They ravage the lands in a different way and for the mad solo kings this will always be an estranged way of life.
Tributes paid in red gold. Lands conquered and defended. The solo kings have no desire for such a life.
The solo king's calling is a battle it can not win but one that it does, even if he loses. Aggressive, teeth showing, fighting to the death and all the time the treetops are whipping up a frenzy by these war-winds and the clouds of night darken and the blood-festival begins and the screaming hayabusa sings and swoops and the heart of the solo king burns and beats like a drum in the midst of a great battle.
It beats louder than that of his foe.
And thus went the game .... when the battle is over and the pieces lay broken.
MB.
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