I'VE NEVER FEARED THE DRUMS OF WAR
OLALLA — MALE — PITTIAN — ARDENT — PLOT
The beast lumbered through the thick jungle; his eyes set upon not just the path ahead, but thrown at which sat comfortably with the cold walls of The Pitt. It would soon be his, all of this would soon be his; the leaves and the grass, even the paws that set foot upon it. All of it. And he'd never let it go, not unless that damned blood spilled from his throat; then and only then.
Perhaps the current leader would make things easy for themself, and step down peacefully, and in turn however would result in their inevitable banishment. The dunes would not be pleasantly dormant, no doubt. Perhaps death would be a kindness for the old bastard. Olalla slithered under rotting logs and over top slick rocks, a sidewinder underneath the rigid undergrowth; the air still as if all had been holding its breath; silencing all movement and peeling back it's hesitant branches away from the disgusting beast that loped down the slick riversides now, ever hungry for more.
The taste was so close, skin and bone on the tip of his tongue; Olalla slid down the sides of the riverbed with his claws dragging across the wet mud, now trotting slowly down to the river's edge. A dark tongue unfurled past long canines and into the swirling waters, lukewarm liquid coating his mouth and throat, except then without all the fur. He'd have to settle with water for taste, for now. At least until he made his way into the splintered temple of The Pitt.
He wouldn't stop, he couldn't. Not now, not while that thrown sat adorned like a rusty broach upon a dusted stage. And oh, how the actors yearned to perform, scratching relentlessly at the bone stage; like taking bricks out of the walls of your own house, eventually all would tumble down. That throne would be the death of him, he understood that already, but perhaps he would bring life momentarily while occupying it. Olalla looked up from the swirling waters and began his journey again, racing perpetually toward it. Only thinking of it. Only stopping when he reached it. Can't you help it, thinking of me? The throne yearning frivolously, oh how he yearned himself, if that was not already obvious.
Perhaps the current leader would make things easy for themself, and step down peacefully, and in turn however would result in their inevitable banishment. The dunes would not be pleasantly dormant, no doubt. Perhaps death would be a kindness for the old bastard. Olalla slithered under rotting logs and over top slick rocks, a sidewinder underneath the rigid undergrowth; the air still as if all had been holding its breath; silencing all movement and peeling back it's hesitant branches away from the disgusting beast that loped down the slick riversides now, ever hungry for more.
The taste was so close, skin and bone on the tip of his tongue; Olalla slid down the sides of the riverbed with his claws dragging across the wet mud, now trotting slowly down to the river's edge. A dark tongue unfurled past long canines and into the swirling waters, lukewarm liquid coating his mouth and throat, except then without all the fur. He'd have to settle with water for taste, for now. At least until he made his way into the splintered temple of The Pitt.
He wouldn't stop, he couldn't. Not now, not while that thrown sat adorned like a rusty broach upon a dusted stage. And oh, how the actors yearned to perform, scratching relentlessly at the bone stage; like taking bricks out of the walls of your own house, eventually all would tumble down. That throne would be the death of him, he understood that already, but perhaps he would bring life momentarily while occupying it. Olalla looked up from the swirling waters and began his journey again, racing perpetually toward it. Only thinking of it. Only stopping when he reached it. Can't you help it, thinking of me? The throne yearning frivolously, oh how he yearned himself, if that was not already obvious.
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I demand only this...that you join with me in building a new Rome, a Rome that offers justice, peace and land to all its citizens, not just the privileged few. Support me in this task, and old divisions will be forgotten. Oppose me, and Rome will not forgive you a second time!
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