Tragic.

Death can come at the most inconvenient of times and for others, almost too convenient. Life so underappreciated the day to day blessings taken for granted until its too late and all of it has slipped away. When one becomes accustomed to the tricky ways of conniving fox-like Death, they aren’t as naive. They meaning those who are like gul, who surround themselves around Death and call it friend. They live fearlessly, recklessly, and madly as if Death is the only way to go.

Speaking of Death, here he stands.

Scarred muzzle lowers to the dried blood, inhaling the scent as nose wrinkles in disgust. This blood is spoiled, contaminated with something that has caused a brutal ending. Nose shifts, brushing along the feathered frame that remains locked in rigor mortis. He snorts, his sound echoing through the hushed lands. Disease is the worst killer their is, unstoppable in its wrath and untameable in its wake.

Gul fears almost nothing in this world and yet, disease is the one thing out of his control. To go out in the light of battle, to fall in war, that is something to take pride in. the scars that litter his body reminding him of the tails of old. Think he looks bad? See the other guys. But disease, that is something he himself has yet figured out to master. You cannot see those scars for they reside inside, like little demons destroying from the one place he cannot get to.

Another snort and he flicks the dead bird away from in distaste. “weak,” he murmurs, low voice rattling in gritted jaws. Has the beast been sick before? A couple times, and each time he became stronger and stronger, refusing to allow a thing like that be his downfall. No, his fall will be glorious and songs will be sung about such a thing as the ghoulish king.