Camelot Dimension 360, The Long Winter

CHAPTER 11 MIDNIGHT AT THE CAMELOT CHECKPOINT XI

The closer one gets toward equity, the calmer our personalities become toward immersion. Who dares fill a pot halfway when only one-quarter of it will be distinguished as the filler? What are going through most of the civilians' minds are suicidal thoughts because of the fatuous crimes they commended upon their countrymen and family members.
A hot bowl of water simmers on the King's table. A meeting will erupt soon between the lieutenants and the higher ups. Matchbox should have had this meeting weeks-ago. However, he sobbed most of his time away hiding in the sanctuary of Town Hall's overcast.
The room burns hot as the temperature rises passed unwanted levels. The water bubbles while cooling. Conversely, not by much. It steams the room with resistible amounts of heated precipitation.
The stench from the filthy deeds done in this room catches the air into two forms. One: as its true form, pure ugliness. Second: as an image embalmed in the body only viewable by the human heart.
Terror pedals deep into the king's chest, causing him to go into a state of restricted thought.
If it wasn't for the fact that he had to leave in a couple of days, he probably would bury himself in a pitiful time loop remembering that undesirable night.
His body withers. He rations his meals, keeping himself fed enough to at least suck in sufficient air to sleep in terrible agony. He needs to feel the pain; the only reality he is seeking to know.
Opening it, the undernourished king walks to the window. His chest patters hard. He hasn't moved as a man for the last few weeks. He crawled about on all fours, pushing his head into the cracks of the walls like an ostrich anticipating that strange and mysterious night. Fresh air hasn't seeped into the room since the messenger came to visit yesterday morning.
He covers his eyes from the awesome glare. On the far side of Camelot, the Black Forest may need a new knick name. It's truly amazing that trees could hibernate for years but still carry the essence of life. It's a soulless place awakening from the dead.
The Black Forest blooms from out of a fifty year ice age. Sunlight reflects through the trees. Animal migration hasn't beamed its glow on the land yet. Potholes (filled with water) give a sequential living environment to plant and insect life.
Sugar suckers bore into the bark of trees collecting the sweet sap it contains. These bright green creatures are bigger than hands. Sugar suckers make excellent meals for predators yet to show an existence in daylight. Their plump little bodies have enough protein to keep a predator happy for a few hours.
Grabbing a sugar sucker, a bird swoops down lifting it toward the treetops. Ambushed, hundreds of sweet suckers leap onto the bird, dragging it into the inveiglement. Like most of the animals living in the ice bound areas, the sweet suckers collected a desire for subsistence.
The suckers rip into the bird's feathers. Tearing tissue from its body, they create a bloody pulp of flesh and bones, which will soon be completely devoured.
Matchbox shuts the blinds then humbles back to the floor. Darkness consumes him. Earning for the night, he's terrified of his own faith.
Daylight advances through the cracks, boring chunks of light into the silent horrors. The king's sword branches in the center of the table. The heat enkindles the air causing the temperature to reach undesirable levels. No matter how much he cooks, the feeling of loneliness surfaces and reality overwhelms him.

The King's Table

Lieutenant Swordsman, Daniel Gonesh, The Master Archer John Kuckus, and Mayor Leith Erickson pose around the King's table as Lord Matchbox sits hidden in a remote area.
The guests wear their battle uniforms. Even though they are in uniform, they still look like peasants. The army hasn't taken a bath since they made it back to Camelot weeks ago.
They smell bad, and their wardrobes are filthy. The only way someone could take a nice peaceful dip into cleanliness, is if they go into the dark forest and jump into the river.
Furthermore, no one has the audacity to leave the checkpoint, considering the fact that the citizens must heal from their mental illnesses first.
Folding their arms, everyone stares into space desperately gazing into nothingness. The shutters are open. Daylight presses through the window-panes. No joys dispersing through, only uneasiness.
Maybe insecurity is a better interpreter to define this atmosphere.