Lincs
Writer of Things
Foster
He had been polishing off his second plate of prison gruel when the rat spoke. A rat.
Foster made a choking sound as he sucked air in through his mouthful of food. Swallowing hard, he gaped at the talking rodent and felt the back of his head to make sure that it really was just a bruise, and he hadn't permanently damaged anything in there.
He wanted to speak, but no words came to mind. The green-haired girl seemed sympathetic to the supposed vermin king's words, but the younger man seemed equally as suspicious as Foster. Finally gathering the right words to speak out against this "help," Foster opened his mouth... but then... something happened. He felt a... pressure, and suddenly the rat's propositions made sense. He found himself agreeing that yes, their plight was unjust and yes, he should agree to accept the virtuous beast king's help. It was for the best.
No! No, this is wrong, wrong, wrong, someone help, help me help me help me-
A small part of his mind bucked wildly at what was happening to the larger whole. The part that actively rejected the notion that heroes were a real thing, that the forces that be were inherently good and charitable, and that people and entities performed virtues out of the goodness of their hearts. The hard shell he had created around his past and problems. Sweat beaded his brow as he struggled with himself; he cast his eyes around to the others, looking for help. He caught Nyrea's eye, fear now plain on his features in turn.
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