He was bloated and scarred

  from his top to his bottom.

  His trunk ran down to below his chin,

  His glazed-over eye

  They were milky, red, and gruesome.

  His pointed ears were bitten and cut.

  His armor was sparse and covered all but his gut.

  He sat alone,

  Wearing a few furs near his campfire.

  “No sleep for me, I must eat,

  ‘Til then I will never retire.”

  His hunger ran deep,

  For his kind, digested for years on end.

  But it was now his time to hunt once again

  along the sprawling dunes of sand.

  Donreal was his name,

  Yet to man, he was “beast face”, a bitter name.

  To survive was his game.

  He avoided the men,

  For he knew that their love had died with their pyre flame.

  So alone he lived, the rest of his kind

  Either dead or scattered.

  He didn't know them or cared.

  He preferred it this way, for with people,

  He felt even more alone and scared.

  As the sun rose

  Along the dunes of Gem Tongue Desert,

  He began his hunt,

  In killing wild game, he was an expert.

  The hooves of his feet glided along the sand,

  Making little noise.

  A Grully Gott, a pack beast,

  Fed along the cacti and grumbled

  Seeing it made his stomach growl and his feet fumble.

  Donreal knew that once it was altered,

  He had but a single chance.

  And so, with a draw of his mace,

  He chose to risk it and gamble in death's dance.

  The Gott saw him

  And lifted its sparking horn to the sky.

  It trampled about

  And began to huff and sigh.

  Donreal knew that right here, and right now,

  He would come out with a feast like a king,

  Or he would suffer and die.

  And so gathering his rage and his courage alike,

  He galloped to the beast and swung his mace,

  colliding with its face, in a mighty strike.

  The Grully Gott staggered and screamed,

  Its caved-in face crumbled

  As blood poured and streamed.

  The creature fell back

  And shook violently along the sandy dune.

  There it was born and lived, here it would die,

  and a stomach would be its tomb.

  Donreal ate well that night.

  Nothing like a great desert creature

  To satisfy the “beast face’s” appetite.

  As his campfire burned,

  He fashioned a flute out of the Gott’s horn.

  The memories rushed back

  As he played an old folk tune.

  He reminisced on times of love and scorn,

  of the days when his people were untorn,

  and when his long-dead cubs were born.

  He danced around and wept as he played.

  The stars and the moon shone bright

  Like the hilt of a blade.

  His dance shook the earth

  And rattled the heavens.

  The sky he did serenade,

  And the ground he did reckon.

  He played through the night

  Till he could no longer.

  Though his desire to play was strong,

  His need for rest was stronger.

  And so he buried himself in the sand,

  His trunk sticking out to breathe.

  It was tall and rough,

  And blended right in with the dead palm trees.

  His snores rumbled the land, and the dunes shifted.

  Little did he know in his peaceful slumber,

  Within the sea of sands, he drifted.

  To a place he desired never to be.

  In a valley of war and spite,

  And men of high pomposity.

  Finally, in his rumbling sleep,

  He landed between two fortresses.

  One forfeited with the engraving of crows and bats.

  And the other disheveled with sparrows and cats.

  So while our dear friend Donreal gets

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  His much-needed rest.

  We will take a look at the people of both sides

  And put them to the test.

  Firstly, Castle Crowmin of the royal family Craalmog.

  Leading the charge was Baron Bakus Craalmog.

  The son of Baron Sellog, Lord of fire and smog.

  Who was the son of Baron Hinwen,

  Master of war and the flog.

  So on and so forth, it was that Bakus Craalmog

  Was the latest in a line of royals.

  Many of which, contrary to legend,

  Did not have many struggles or toils.

  Their wars were mostly one-sided ventures,

  Conquer this and conquer that.

  A royal leads a kingdom,

  Not some small village full of rats.

  So more land they took,

  And more innocent blood they did spill.

  “What is a tribe or an outer village,

  But another heretic to kill.

  Did man save the day by loving the dragon?

  No, he killed it, or made it form to his will.

  I carry the legacy of mighty leaders before me

  Though my actions may appear brutal to some,

  They change the world to be better, you will see!”

  He smoked his pipe alone

  In his royal crimson chamber.

  The world plagued with famine and disease,

  He craved a distraction, a new flavor.

  So though most of his men fell

  Due to hunger and illness.

  He did not let it faze him.

  For there was one last land

  That needed to bear witness.

  One last land to conquer

  And make his father proud.

  He may die,

  But he promised

  That he would go out strong and loud.

  He yearned for the annals of history

  To remember his name.

  For all the kingdoms he slew,

  And all the beasts he tamed.

  Oh dear Crow Lord,

  Dearest baron of blood.

  Why must you stay the course,

  In the dark red flood?

  So it was that his enemy across the land,

  About a mile away

  He would finally destroy,

  He would finally slay.

  Masters of stealth,

  Any trace of them was either non-existent or scant.

  There in a ruined tower

  Laid the remnants of the mighty Vetagants.

  A guild of knights known near and far

  They traveled in the dark,

  Following the light of the stars.

  Unlike the castle Crowmin,

  They had no true ruler or leader.

  They fought as a pack,

  Among the bushes and the trees of cedar.

  Or at least they used to hide among the trees…

  With the world dying, and nothing but the sand breeze.

  They had no choice

  But to hide away in a makeshift fortress.

  Desperate and hungry,

  Most of them died in fear and distress.

  They had been driven insane long ago

  And resorted to suicide missions.

  To keep up with the Crow Lord’s ambitions.

  How the Vetagants chanted

  And kept fighting the good fight.

  Yet for all their hard work and spite,

  They had few men left

  And lost more by each moon-lit night.

  Some were so far gone,

  They began eating their own weapons and clothes.

  The leather and string satiated

  Their starving bellies for a few minutes.

  With only thirty of the four hundred original rebels left,

  The mad men were reaching their limits

  Knowing their coming doom.

  The Vetagants planned to storm the castle

  And lock Craalmog in a tomb.

  So forward they charged,

  Like skeletons riding off to battle.

  They ran on foot,

  For they ate the horses they would usually saddle.

  As their footsteps rustled the sand

  And earth beneath their feet,

  The trunk of Donreal could feel the warriors cry and bleat.

  On the other side of the battlefield,

  The soldiers of Castle Crowmin refused to yield.

  In the middle, they met and traded blows.

  Both armies weak and unsustainable,

  Both filled with pain and woe.

  Yet the armies were filled with pride,

  Too much to let go.

  Until they would die,

  They would commit to this show.

  As they fought and blood soaked the ground,

  Donreal smelled man and burst out

  with a roaring trumpeting sound.

  Shock and horror filled both sides

  As the massive “beast-faced” man made himself known.

  With fear in their hearts,

  They let out cries to the heavens and yelled pleas.

  They assumed their sins that were sown

  Had finally caught up to them,

  And Moruk himself had come to reap their souls,

  Dragging them back to the seas.

  Donreal roared a mighty roar

  and began thrashing about.

  He smashed their weapons,

  He crushed their scouts.

  His mace slammed into men left and right.

  The Vetagants' bodies flew in the air

  Like mangled kites.

  The Crowmin army was torn apart

  Into grizzly sights.

  Once, a sound of war

  And revenge filled the air.

  Now Donreal’s cries echoed;

  None here would he spare.

  How the men tried to fight.

  How they poked and prodded.

  But not one attack could pierce,

  Or make one slight on the accursed beast.

  Not only would he slay the men who feared him so,

  But Donreal would have another feast.

  Nightfall came,

  And only one man on each side was able to escape.

  A Vetagant named Shilman,

  And of course, Baron Bakus.

  Both sat away with their mouths agape.

  Donreal picked clean the men

  And began fashioning charms

  And necklaces from the bones.

  He created bone armor

  Which onto his clothes he sewed.

  From the skulls,

  He made little puppet shows.

  A strange entertainment

  For a lonesome creature.

  Shilman knew little of beasts;

  He had only staged a rebellion.

  Now, with no men or warriors,

  This created quite the complication.

  Bakus was just as dumbfounded and confused.

  He was the mighty ruler of all,

  And yet somehow,

  He and his holy kingdom were bruised.

  Both sides were left with little to do.

  So they did what they usually did,

  Yelled out their philosophies,

  Their poison continued to spew.

  They yelled from across their broken castles.

  A last attempt and denial,

  To justify the toils and hassles.

  Both of them similarly thought,

  “Our struggles meant something,

  Our fighting was destiny,

  I slay you, and your people,

  And the rest would go to me.

  That is how it worked before,

  And how it should be after.

  If not, were our

  Wars and fighting only

  But fodder for laughter?”

  Laughter indeed did come.

  As Donreal heard the petty argument of men,

  It made him laugh till he was sore,

  And his belly went numb

  Both men were so insulted

  By this display of amusement.

  They both stomped their way

  To the giant, beastly elephant,

  Both to their abusement.

  Shilman and Bakus both stared

  At each other as broken men.

  Both knowing full well each other's vice and sin.

  Yet in this moment of weakness,

  They both had a shared enemy.

  Who was instead what made them mad.

  “Beast face!” They both let out a hearty yell.

  “Have you come to punish us? Please tell!”

  Donreal quieted his laughing

  And looked down at the men and sighed.

  “No,” he said as he scratched his side.

  Both men looked confused;

  They assumed such a thing

  Would have been divine intervention.

  They had no idea that Donreal

  Was in the wrong place at the wrong time

  With only survival as his intention.

  “Why did you slay our men?

  Why did you feast on their flesh?” Bakus sneered.

  “They scared me, and meat is meat,” Donreal answered

  As he peered at the two of them.

  “So you are not a servant of the higher powers?

  Not a warrior of Moruk or Togan?”

  Shilman said with disbelief.

  “I know of no God to worship by the hour,

  Only the sand and the stars are what I scour,

  And those names,

  I know not of their tongue or token,

  So bother me no longer with such questions,

  for I must be on my way.”

  Donreal began to grab his things,

  And slowly walk away.

  The Baron, enraged and unsatisfied,

  Pulled out a sword.

  And as he began to chase

  And run right towards Donreal,

  He was met with the slamming, crushing,

  Bloody weapon that was his mace.

  All that remained of Bakus was his head.

  Fear was strewn across his lifeless face.

  Donreal looked and saw Shilman shaking

  And staring at the head of his former enemy.

  For the baron and his legacy, paid the highest penalty…

  To be forgotten and lost to time.

  The “beast face” came closer to the shaking man

  And said to him,

  “Violence is nature's way to take away and trim.

  To be honest,

  I find your little wars dim.

  So I must ask you with your fair skin and hair prim,

  Are you so bold as to fight against time,

  And against the sand's crawl?

  Alone, you are as good as dead,

  Only together will your kind be whole.”

  He picked up his mace

  And licked the blood and viscera off it.

  Shilman could do nothing but cry and sit.

  Donreal walked off into the sandy night.

  The stars shone down and gave him plenty of light.

  Both castles were empty as they truly always were.

  Off the last Vetagant went, looking for a greener pasture.

  He didn't know if he would find another tribe to call his own,

  But if there was one thing he learned from the “beast face,”

  He needed somewhere new to call home.