Golden skin with white eyes, and a terrible frowning mouth, bronze cheeks framed by hideous clan symbols. His eyes showed nothing, no emotion, and certainly not pity.
He held his axe competently, confidently, a massive, blunt thing that was carried easily by his immense and knotted arms. They were burned dark by the son and tattooed with more of his people's language, twisting, convoluted symbols of a vanished age. Day by day his memory of his people's voice weakened and splintered in his mind, and it burned inside of him.
He tensed, then thundered forth, hacking brutally at the legs of the monster, which screeched and attempted to dodge feebly, but it was slow, and sick, and should have never have bothered him. In its many-colored eyes, Kongol saw the jeering faces of those who slaughtered his kind, and his eyes misted red for a time, as crushed the beast beneath his feet into a slick pulp.
He didn't want to be here, in the shadow of what used to be a citadel of learning and beauty, and what was now a deserted ruin blocked off from the rest of the world by magic and time. He didn't want to think of strong, untouchable Emperor Doel bleeding from a gut wound in his throne room, held up by his twin swords of moon and sun, and by his iron will.
But the one who burned like a flame in the desert had called him, and he followed. The red one had showed that he had power, immense power, and more than anything Kongol wanted that. He wanted to know what made the flames burn cold in the dark woman's eyes, and he wanted to know what made the stripling king stand as straight as an arrow shaft. Was it pride? Was it divinity? Was it wisdom?
Was it hope?
