The loss of his children weighed heavily on him, though not in a sentimental fashion. It burned in his chest, a white hot fury. Caligula was angry, there was no doubt, at whatever fucking god above had slaughtered his blood before they had even been born. They had not died valiant or honorable deaths, had not been given the fucking chance to live up to their father's name or status. They had been a waste of time and energy and his blood boiled as he stalked across the mists, slavering for something or someone to sink his teeth into. Where was that bitch of his? He called for her, demanding she show herself and be a good girl. Caligula wouldn't hurt her too badly if she obeyed, though. Maybe.
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