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The new lord gets up off the floor with his inoperable heart and soulful thoughts. Sitting on the thrown--the more the dawn arises--the more the hours pierce into the clouds and further into the morning. Daybreak seeps into the windows. The warmth from the sun rays haze the fluids from blood stains on the table. It constructs the steam to dance around in vapor circles. Breaking the silence, someone enters.

Startling King Matchbox--causing him to jerk his head toward the direction of the offender--a young teenage boy appears. Carrying some arrows and a bow to present to Lord Matchbox, the teenager is an Archer in the Camelot’s army.

Lord Matchbox is confounded in his own circlet orbiting into a crisis or mental breakdown.


“Just set them on the table and leave.”

The young man acknowledges his request. He puts the bow and arrows on the table and looks around the room.

The boy thinks to himself, “Royalty shouldn’t be living like this.” 

This is how rumors get started and spread throughout the village. He turns around and leaves out the door. Ultimately, Lord Matchbox is alone again. Without wasting anytime, he goes over to the table. Picking up the bow. He stands with his feet shoulder-widt a part. It is important when aiming a bow to keep your body in a straight position. He stands unbowed with his head directly attaining the ceiling.

Taking the arrow and placing it on the knocking point, he pulls the line back keeping his elbow even with the bow. The bow lines up with his nose while his eyes aim down the string and down the arrow tip. There isn’t an aiming sight so shooting this particular type of arrow takes a certain skill. Well, doing it this way apparently.

He lifts the head up toward one of the statues of his father on the ceiling and releases the bowstring. Breaking off the statue’s head, the arrow sinks into the wall. Preparing to reload it in the same fashion, he continues to shoot the statues until he clears the room with them.

Arrow-heads are stuck in the ceiling, and bits and pieces of stone are on the floor. However, that still doesn’t feed the king's raging craving for retribution. Lord Matchbox takes the bow and breaks it in half.

The Passing Tory from the Kingdom of Anthropophagite

Surrounding the Passing Tory, eight swordsmen and six archers won’t let him leave the hill. The Passing Tory paces back and forth looking out at the crowd staring back at him. He is considered to be the hangman; plus, if he is harmed in anyway, their entire kingdom could be brought down to dust by a cannibalistic people. Everyone in the village is just as evil and corrupted now as the people of Anthropophagite. The villagers have savored the blood of their brothers and sisters. 

Clouds are blackening. Everything turns dark. The bad weather games its way into the clear skies. However, this time it’s not snow clouds. It’s the calling of a rainstorm. It will soon scale across the land and flood its empty-frozen rivers with pure fresh water. Clouds like this would pose for seven days and seven nights. That’s 24 hours multiplied by seven, which is an equivalent to 196 hours of water fall.

The soldiers have taken off the Passing Tory’s mask--but something is terribly wrong with his face. His features are obscured, and it is kind of like staring at someone with double vision.

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