I've heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the Lord
but you don't really care for music do you?
He tries his best to forget life before the Gates. Life before the Gates was full of uncertainties and fears. He had went hungry more often than not and the monsters never seemed to stray too far from his mind. Often times he thought he heard them in the shadows, with their strange clicks and chirps and purrs but he couldn’t be sure. Garbage, despite his good intentions, could do nothing for the child. He had to milk, first off, and by the time Mast had been born he was pathetically old, living on time he’d borrowed from somewhere. His mother (or other father, depending on how one looked at it) had been the monsters meal before Masts coat had even dried. Even now he could recall the sounds of bones snapping, and the way torn and rendered flesh sounded when it was being consumed.
But all of that was behind him now, far behind and hidden in the deepest caverns of his mind. Because he had survived, he refused to take anything for granted or to leave any stone unturned. He would repay his debts to those who had saved him from the uncertainty, and he would start by helping to build the kingdom. He would serve this place until his dying breaths passed over his lips.
Somewhere, sometime, winter had slipped into the Gates almost unnoticed. It seemed like only yesterday the leaves were vibrant shades of golds and oranges, and now they lay dead on the forest floor. Soon the snow would fall, blanketing them all. For now though, it was simply cold, and the Gray King shivered in spite of himself. He was of desert heritage, and as such didn’t grow quite as much coat as others did. Movement he thought, movement would help offset the chill. So he strode off through the trees, his gray coat matching the indecisive sky and his eyes sweeping the border. Given their recent upswing in activity, he liked to place himself there in the event they were visited. Today, it seemed, he would not be disappointed. A new figure caught his eye, a young boy all legs and wide-eyes. Approaching him was Rapscallion, the buckskin who had volunteered himself to their kingdom. He caught the tail end of Rapscallions welcome, and he snorted slightly in amusement. Obviously, the buckskin wasn’t the most jovial of their members but he certainly got an A for effort. “I believe what he meant to say was “hello” Mast said with a smile, dipping his head towards Rapscallion to show he meant no harm with his quip. “Welcome to the Gates. I’m Mast. What can we do for you?” and he waited on the boy, as even tempered as one king could be.
M A S T