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King Morbidity
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Time hurries on Clop, clank! Clop, clank!
Hailing from the horizon to the north, he lopes forth on split hooves, his broken gait further crippled by shackled pasterns and ravaged flanks. Driven hard and ridden raw, his mane is matted with clotted blood, an irritant to the hollow eyes of the scarred and sunken face. His tongue lolls, slackened at the hind of his jaw, his teeth bearing the stain of malnutrition and neglect.
King Morbidity, mounted on his decrepit steed of disease, destruction, and death pommels the flank with a jagged spur. His tarnished crown rests askew his brow, eyes burning with the insanity of an empire built on the anguish and torment of mankind. Clenched in a filth-ridden manus and cast in a coat of grime, the goblet presses to pale, cracked lips, staining them with the slow scarlet liquid within.
