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03-02-2016, 12:01 PM
It burned.
Not his chest, not the memories of a cracked, blackened, bleeding hide. The first was locked in icy fear, the latter had left scars in his mind. No, what burned was his right knee. The already large joint was even larger with swelling and a thin line of dried, yellow pus below it belied the infection festering there.
The King had tried to ignore it (stupidly, he now acknowledged). The burning magma had splattered his legs and chest; but here, at his knee, it had burned through the thick skin to the delicate joint capsule. And so, in the quiescence of synovium, bacteria had flourished and given rise to a knee so distended, he could not longer bend it.
The fever and pain spread illness through his veins. Despite the frozen Frostfall air, his buckskin hide was darkened to brown in patches by sweat. An occasional tremor wracked his scarred hide. Though he did not succumb to the infection; he stood tall atop the cliffs. Though, given his occasional sway, perhaps this was no the wisest of places for the Elephant King to stand. He rested the injured leg out in front of him, slightly blurred gaze stared unseeing at the rocks and waves below. He deserved this. Didn’t he?
A soft, chuffing whine of concern came from Mbwene who, despite all her curiosity about the world, did not leave her bonded’s side. Literally. She stayed glued to his good foreleg, trunk gently probing the other, injured knee (thus producing more pus from the wound). She didn’t know what was going on, besides the fact that her big man’s knee was too hot. And billows of what she would learn to call “nausea” came through her bond— it made eating impossible. Her stout form steadied against his limb, trumpeting loudly in fear at a particularly extreme sway of the Elephant King. “Mbwene…” his usual rumble was hoarse, and nearly audible.
Not his chest, not the memories of a cracked, blackened, bleeding hide. The first was locked in icy fear, the latter had left scars in his mind. No, what burned was his right knee. The already large joint was even larger with swelling and a thin line of dried, yellow pus below it belied the infection festering there.
The King had tried to ignore it (stupidly, he now acknowledged). The burning magma had splattered his legs and chest; but here, at his knee, it had burned through the thick skin to the delicate joint capsule. And so, in the quiescence of synovium, bacteria had flourished and given rise to a knee so distended, he could not longer bend it.
The fever and pain spread illness through his veins. Despite the frozen Frostfall air, his buckskin hide was darkened to brown in patches by sweat. An occasional tremor wracked his scarred hide. Though he did not succumb to the infection; he stood tall atop the cliffs. Though, given his occasional sway, perhaps this was no the wisest of places for the Elephant King to stand. He rested the injured leg out in front of him, slightly blurred gaze stared unseeing at the rocks and waves below. He deserved this. Didn’t he?
A soft, chuffing whine of concern came from Mbwene who, despite all her curiosity about the world, did not leave her bonded’s side. Literally. She stayed glued to his good foreleg, trunk gently probing the other, injured knee (thus producing more pus from the wound). She didn’t know what was going on, besides the fact that her big man’s knee was too hot. And billows of what she would learn to call “nausea” came through her bond— it made eating impossible. Her stout form steadied against his limb, trumpeting loudly in fear at a particularly extreme sway of the Elephant King. “Mbwene…” his usual rumble was hoarse, and nearly audible.
Tembovu
the Elephant King
@Alysanne
Please tag Tembovu.
