In the Glass City of Gomorrah, there is a whore house… and it is there the concubines gather to hush the King of the smallest vineyard to sleep. He goes in there to seek solace for he is deemed a failure in all ways when measured against the other Kings. Weakness is a bane when one cannot rise above it.

The King is old and has left no legacy worthy to raise him to immortality when he dies. He has wasted his life on debauchery and harlots; he has ensured his name will be forgotten as soon as he draws his last breathe. Of noble lines and honorable men, he cannot claim to have been one of them… he has lived his live scrapping at the bottom of the barrel just so he can pay his whores to tell him he is the mightiest in the land… and they do so as long as he pays them. A small man cannot rise above the shadows cast by giants but when one is deep in his drinks; fallacy becomes reality for the moment.

The King has had a stroke; desperate to salvage what little he has, he marches on to the whore house so his concubines may whisper lies into his ears to ease his injured pride.

This King has used deceit to trap the prophet witch and he has betrayed the order to keep his concubines. They will kiss his eyelids and caress his wrinkled skin, they will promise never to betray him as he betrayed the witch who helped him build his empire.

He will be surrounded by his cackling whores who will prop up his pride if not his worth, they may even further his wealth when he sells their services out to his fellow mates for a penny or two but this King will know true loneliness though he will never be alone.

And he will know in his heart that the Prophet Witch is lost to him forever.

The beast was here all along…


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