All The King's Horses

 He walked through the verdant valley with a perpetual sneer, clearing footpaths and scraping trees when his bladder grew empty.

 He didn't need to be instructed. He was a machine, oiled with blood. 

 Scent of the Highbloods littered the valley, cloying in its ivory sweetness. Then at last a pale silhouette faded into view. The bull bowed his head. “High King.”

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As a King normally does, Percival was caught lounging. Red-pawed. Percival had been doting on the territory, staking a further claim...by laying in the flower fields. Around his body he was surrounded by the whitest of lily flowers, his favorite fauna, and was encapsulated by the sun.

The grovelling voice hit his ears quicker than he smelled him. Callanwolde. The dark visage coiled around Callanwolde's neck, a suffocating sin that locked him forever more beneath a coat of malice. Oh, how Percival pitied him. He'd watch as his Steward bow his head, an almost cat-like purr leaving his chest. "Callanwolde," the High King would only offer a nod of his nose, brief and solid. 

"A report, please." The High King didn't waste time standing up and saunting a little too close to Callanwolde for a typical royal. That was alright, Callanwolde was always one of his favorites. Percival would urge them to walk together through the field of lillies, eagerly listening to the report of his valley.

 

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 They expected etiquette, sentences structured instead of strewn. So, Callan spoke sparsely. 

 “Patrolled while looking for others.” 

 The meadow was littered with ivory petals, the white blooms catching the sun to great, garish grandeur. The High King rose and drew close to the red bull. Yoked in servitude, he measured his steps to keep pace with the slighter royal.

 “Seems big enough.” This valley, home anew - all Percival had to do was bid it.

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Callanwolde kept his pace to match Percival's— good, he had no time to dilly-dally. Especially with the uproar of peasantry on the outskirts of this heavenly land, Percival had no time to rest. No time to lounge about like his fellow family members, 

He listened with earnest to the report— even if it rather fruitless. Times have changed immensely since they both fell into a new, unknown domain. But Percival had no qualms about making it his own. "You think so?" Don't be silly, Callanwolde. That was rhetorical. Percival knew to the heavens and back that this territory would be big enough. The entire valley would belong to them in no time. 

"You serve us well, Callanwolde." The King would say, dipping his nose downward to inhale the soft scent of a lily. "Keep up the good work. I don't want any more of these strangers lurking about." After his inhale, he turned to look at his Steward. How faithful he had been.

 

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 Praise was better than punishment, but the gilded sheen of pretty words were wasted on the beast. 

 Lip curling at these strangers that harrassed Highvalley's claim, his matted coat of crimson began to prickle with an impending bloodlust. The chance for a hunt. 

 “Do you want them killed or captured?”

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Percival knew that Callanwolde's bloodlust ran much deeper than he could ascertain. He'd want to allow the animal a chance at peace— a place where he could satiate his teeth into a pound of bloody flesh. 

But Percival did no one's bidding but his own. "Captured, for now. We don't want to upset any neighbors." Percival would tsk. The valley was secured, no doubt, but any Nomad would seek a paradise that hid behind their stronghold. It was Callanwolde's job to keep them out. 

"If they refuse..." Percival would inhale sharply, now turning to face the beast at his bending will. "Kill them, and bring me their head."

 

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 In this small way, Percival served the beast. In letting go the tether, the King let loose a nightmare. 

 Mouth split into a cracked, yellow grin. “As you wish, my King.”

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