The Behemoth

The behemoth’s leather tunic barely covered his groin - he constantly mopped his brow and peed in public unashamedly. He even peed on the children who watched nearby - the only act that indicated there might have been a sense of play or humor - it was hard to say. He did not laugh. He did not speak. He grunted and raged, he mumbled in an indefinable dialect, but never smiled, or if he did, the great beard did not show it.

His hairless legs were tattooed with scars. His hands were missing their finger nails, and the giant’s skin was so dry and cracked it looked like living parchment. His blue eyes watered, and his hair was tied back with a fox claw clasp.

On this day he was thundering through the market, with a cart forcibly acquired, filling it with meats and fruits, before retiring back to his fort which was secured just five miles from the city’s entrance.

On this journey he had not been alone. As he rattled through the countryside, a group of timid soldiers stalked his pathway, keeping a sly distance following to find the truth as to whether or not this Heathen camped alone.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances