They hold watch over The Beast.
It came from within The Gleam.
Having cleaned up the aftermath of the great avian battle at The Sticks, The Beast floats in The Basin with a belly full of soaked feathers. Many brave wingflappers fell on this day, ‘flappers of feathers both brown and white, and they were all swallowed whole by The Beast’s insatiable maw. He didn’t have a choice in the matter, though that’s not to say he didn’t enjoy every piece of flesh pierced by his jagged teeth, those bent stalactites and stalagmites lining his dark cave of a mouth; the buzz commands him, the infernal vibration, the sick love song of The Dome that plays and plays in his mind, never to relent. It stalks his every thought, decides his every movement. Ever since The Beast swam through that orb of yellow-green light, ever since his vast ocean gave way to this internment pond he’s heard the grinding buzz. Ever since then, The Beast has been commanded by the spectral wail.
This has been the eighth subchapter of the third chapter of The Monksville Chronicles. Here is everything you need to know about it:
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page. Here’s that.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~