Lips like Morphine

Sitri too smelled the waste and the death and the decay of his queen. He could smell the crazy is what his father would have said, even though there was no way for that to happen. Sitri had been lost in translation most of his life, suspended between what his duty was and what he was and now that he had no duty but to himself he found it oddly discernting.

He heard the footfalls of another and hackles raised as tattered ears swayed backwards and he looked to his side as a new female came upon him in his hour of darkness. He stared at her as she spoke not making sense of her words at first. Sitri was at most a simple man, though his simple mindness was slowly making way for a new semblance of sense, it still took him a time to work things through in his mind. It did not bother him though most just thought him a silent being.

He stared at her and said quietly Nothing to be done. It is at a pass. We have lost the queen to a sickness that no one knows what to do about. Now we wait and we stay loyal and we do not break that is what we do. I am Sitri you are?