#quentin thread

Connection: My muse has just inherited the throne to his kingdom, and your muse is approaching his throne - whether as someone requesting something of him, someone offering something, or an adviser... or anything that would make logical sense.

Finally. After what seemed like eons, his birthright had finally arrived. His father, the former king of the dragonborn empire, had passed away due to old age at the age of forty-four thousand and that meant that the throne was to be passed to his heir. But his heir wasn’t his eldest son - no, his heir was his youngest son, barely under two hundred... making him the youngest to ever sit upon the throne. Most saw him as nothing more than a whelp, a boy king, but those that knew of his experiences on the battlefield and his bloodlust and ambition knew that he would make a worthy king and bring the dragonborn empire to greatness.

It wasn’t uncommon for the new King of the dragonborns to be given an offering. Ever since he had ascended the throne, the surrounding kingdoms knew that they had to placate him or it was only a matter of time before they would wind up facing the same fate as many of his enemies. He had been, after all, the famous dragonborn warrior that had killed thousands even before ascending the throne, and he had done so at the youngest age of his kind. People knew when they heard his name, it was often followed by death and bloodshed.

It was why when the brothel-master walked into the building with a few people he wanted to give to the King, the male simply tilted his head and watched them. They were all skinny, too skinny, but that was a plus - it meant, to him, that it would be so much fun to break them with his massive cock and maybe even bless them with his seed. The children they’d carry would be bastards, halflings that would be considered abominations, but it would still put them above the slaves before him.

Rising to his feet, he made his way down the set of stairs that led to his throne to appraise each of the new victims, eyeing them carefully. Oh, yes... they’ll do nicely. It wasn’t until he stopped at one, a young boy that you cold practically smell the fear off of, that he smirked and pointed in his direction. “I’ll take this one now... the rest will go to the dungeons.” Looking over a guard, he nodded in their direction and watched them, in one fell swoop, behead the brothel-master that entered his keep before the other guards took the rest of the slaves.

God, he hated being the new guys at the station. Though he had been part of the station for over three years, he was still considered the rookie because he was the one with the least experience - and that meant he was the one that usually had to do the grunt work. That was how he found himself responding to a call about someone seeing another person in their neighbor’s yard, and with his flashlight and gun drawn, he made his way through the yard slowly and carefully until he stumbled upon a figure.

“Hands in the air and freeze!”

Finally. After what seemed like eons, his birthright had finally arrived. His father, the former king of the dragonborn empire, had passed away due to old age at the age of forty-four thousand and that meant that the throne was to be passed to his heir. But his heir wasn’t his eldest son - no, his heir was his youngest son, barely under two hundred… making him the youngest to ever sit upon the throne. Most saw him as nothing more than a whelp, a boy king, but those that knew of his experiences on the battlefield and his bloodlust and ambition knew that he would make a worthy king and bring the dragonborn empire to greatness.