RainRidden

moonsong

Derelict Gods of The Northwest

John III Sobieski in the Royal Armoury in Dresden (top)

Armour of King Stephen Báthory in Vienna (left)

The toad was enormous—not only big but also vividly crimson.

“What am I supposed to do with…” Perturabo hesitated, resisting the urge to call it “that,” before finishing awkwardly, “…with him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer, sir,” Azek Ariman replied carefully. “None among us speaks toad language, nor did anyone anticipate such a... comprehensive change.”

Exasperated, Perturabo sighed heavily. The toad croaked softly, "Qwaa-arp?" and looked at him mournfully.

“Typical Magnus. Impulsive beyond reason.”

“Our lord is exceedingly wise,” Ariman retorted defensively.

“I didn’t claim otherwise,” Perturabo dismissed him impatiently. “But wisdom doesn’t preclude folly. Now go—I’ll ponder our next move.”

Once Ariman’s footsteps had receded into silence along the corridors, Perturabo inhaled deeply and raised the toad to meet his gaze.

“All right, brother. Let’s figure out where we stand now.”

Suspended in mid-air, the toad wriggled its long back legs and gazed pensively into nothingness.