In search for the king, the quest he drooled the information upon his chest. In the search for this wretched land, he took his mothers rotten hand. He took a quick gaise at his pondersome sword as the city walls were no more. He pulled out his wreckless beast as his mother call upon a feast. In the distant horizon he saw a shimering light. Or perhaps a bright flight? That we will never know. Because it began to snow. He was pleased to see his mothers eyes a single tear run through the skies. She was like frozen in a trance. He saw his mothers lustful dance. He was once a child. Now a man but with no demand. No demand to glance behind. They were in this game of chance. The chance to somehow advance. Advance further down the line only to find what this raptured blight left behind. The dreadful sight of his mothers hands made him feel bad about the poundering brand. The brand that was put there by the deafening man. That earsplitting man enslaved on demand, cursing them to the sea. Condemming them not to be, if you were to act, he would cut your hand and make a pact. A pact that you could never leave the cellar walls. Or he would ring the bells of war. Thus the king took up his axe. The King had sent him on this Epic quest to disrupt this plagueful pest. He had failed the test but to the king he prayed. Little did he know what remained. In this broken kings heart. Only hatred were to depart. He had sat there in the restless night, still looking into his mothers eyes. Thinking that they could begone. But the roaming axe proved him wrong.
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