Cold-Blooded

H is eyes; a well of crimson red, fire, hell fire, held a gaze more fearsome than a tiger. Muscular and toned limbs carried the Fallen King across the land and between the barren trees. He looked nothing more than a ghost haunting the ashen forest. Such a fitting concept to behold to the untrained eye. Blood colored pearls flicked to taken in the changes in landscape. Only the slightest things changed from scene to scene. There was something about a fragment of warmth that could show the coldness, something in the kiss of the sun's rays amid the soaked soil. In that moment, it was Lücien bones that felt the chill, as if he was laying in snow instead of Spring soil and it was stealing everything that was him. It was as welcome as war to a soldier, even to a well trained warrior. Nobody would want that call, the one saying battle has come to find you. Yet at the same time there was a pride under the sorrow, a glimmer of metal to face what was to come, his anger like cheese-wire under snow. He knew in his every fiber that Ignatius was going to have him to reckon with. That day he knew he would rise up, that his path was set, his King-self and blood awakening. He was going to take what was rightfully his. Damned be the ones who dare to stay in his path to glory, to greatness.