Conquest wonders if power part of his being and irremovable? He is the one who will subjugate this earth before his siblings grab at his bone-made crown that carries the scent of tragedy, trying to follow in his footsteps. The crown sits on his brow, and when he touches it Conquest's fingernails snag on tresses of his hair. He counts casualies like he is counting loose coins.
War is one who thrives on power, but it's not part of her being, not the way violence is. Conquest waits for her to kick at his heels as they make their journey past rotting church steeples, desolate towns, rundown hotels on the roadside. War pursues power relentlsesly, and her hunger is kaleidoscopic, monstrous. She takes and takes, revolving around Conquest and his own takings like a carousel spun by the cycle of victory and failure, loss and victory.
The echoes of past fights, the pursuit of new ones to declare- they rattle in the confines of his skull. War does not rattle, does not shake, and knows no confines.
