the king wants his gold

Thirsty grassland would unfold before him, fluctuating lowlands of dehydrated vegetation woven with the struggling fingers of minute rivulets; dainty somewhat, despite the massive numbers that seemed to dwell within the region. Invisible wings would beat behind coral heels, the angel swaying with unnatural ease, only the tips of elongated tail sweeping granules of primordial sand from the enchanters wake. The albino would recess, jewellery-bound elbows squaring beneath broad chest, cherry nostrils quivering with budding interest as the stench of a pack would invade fervent pipes; fondling his psyche into a flurry of ecstasy as he awaited discovery just void of the borders. With him, his recently united slayer, his Silver Knight; Argent meandered close, the pair an undeniable image of prime vigor, imposing determination as sinister intention would brew equally behind saturated gapes. ?Valhalla? had something Isardis wanted, or rather somebody.