It starts with a bubbling.
Ironic, you think, in a land that has tasted no water in so long. Where the only thing you find at the bottom of the scattered wells are yellow dust and endless puzzles that cast you out to the furthest reaches of your planet. It stirs in your gut, hot and heavy, thick as the smell of rot that clogs the air. Tucked beneath your breast, underneath your ribs and pressed tight to the side of your heart it churns. Rage.
Your land cries out for you. Parched, it howls steaming billows of Sulfur into painfully cloudless skies. And you watch. Quite but not pacified you watch your desolate land cry out to you.
You are a prince.
And this is your Princedom.
And barren as it may be you will rein over it and the hot passion of your fury will be transformed into the storms that soothe it.
You know what you must do.
ugh 