Is this some kind of fucking joke? Some dude comes around and promises to -what?- take back the land, and this is what they get? Nothing more than a dried up piece of earth, a wasteland, a place even worse than the Desert (at least deserts have oases). The only positive element is that it isn’t humid and hot. Belgarath is practically made of ice; he doesn’t do well in the heat. He starts sweating like a whore in church, and oh lawdy, it gets awfully hard to breathe. It’s enough to make all several hundred pounds of him quite miserable.
Ah, but there’s nowhere else to go, now is there?
To the south, the common lands hold food and the threat of company, which the dappled stallion has no longing for (Is it fear of retribution for his past sins? Or just curmudgeonly asshole syndrome?). The north is besieged by obnoxiously feminist women and the west is death by salt water. Which just leaves whatever is to the east, over a mountain range. When he has his powers, Belgarath fears no one – not death, not a band of marauding stallions, and not the icy tip of unknown peaks. Without them… the itch to explore and the necessity of holding back is driving him bonkers.
Belgarath stands at the base of the eastern mountains with a frown on his devilishly handsome face (whether or not he is devilishly handsome is in the eye of the beholder, but he will always think of himself as such). His gray-dappled coat is far more brown than gray now, coated by the dry dust that invades every corner of this wasteland. His thoughts linger not on the why or how of land rearranging, but what is beyond what they now, and why does everyone feel the need to ask Beqanna’s permission to have a new home? Why couldn’t he, lazy as he is, if he went over those mountains, be the first to find it and claim it for his own? Are not the ladies fools for kings and entrepreneurs? And does Bel not live mostly in his baser instincts?
Behind those ice-blue eyes lay a screaming Id and a powerful wave of testosterone. All he needs is his Ice.
belgarath
