Mercy We Cry

Feverish, molten irises gaze among the subjects devouring the sickly essence permeating the air. He expects nothing save submission and reverence. The King inhales deeply expecting terror yet, he senses something entirely unexpected. Defiance. He searches hungry to crush the opposition, to remove the taint of hope. Claws rake the inconsequential serfs aside scattering the mindless drones in all directions. A pack of soldiers stand behind the throne ready to defend the reign of the pride yet, always waiting to usurp their king. Off to the side, hidden in the shadows the scholars dwell amongst their own. Flickers of dying light and cool rushes of air trailed in their wake often enticing the cavalier king when he should be weary. Last among his court did the king seek the source of his current tantrum. Too loyal were the soldiers bathed in moonlight. Too compliant were the shadows to defy his order. Nay, the only plausible option were the vixens. Their very scent inflamed his being creating havoc upon his disciplined character. The king signaled for the hunt to commence and turned his back on their pleas: "Mercy We Cry!"