The trees moved aside as he lumbered
across his island.
Each branch and leaf felt like a part
of himself. Looking out over the top of the jungle canopy he saw the
terrible ocean. The wicked eternal lake of salt. That was where men
came from. Always from the sea. On winged houses they came by the
hundreds. They cut down the trees and killed his children. They fed
and roared and burned all in their path. No men dared come to his
island anymore. They knew of his wrath. He had tried to go to out
into the sea, to find all the men and kill them, but it never ended.
He could swing as strong as any living thing, and hold his breath for
days, but still the expanse was too great for even him.
The tiny people from beyond the river
feared him. They built stone monsters in his image to protect
themselves. They sent rafts of sweet fruits and man flesh in tribute
to him. He let them hide in their village and fear him. This was his
island, and one day all the islands would be free of mankind's
plight. With his great arms he pushed aside the trees and looked out
into the blueness. A single winged house drifted towards his shores.
Fighting the wind, and weaving through the deadly rocks. More men.
Like flies to a corpse they came. He let out a roar that shook the
mountains and gave flight to every bird for miles. His children heard
him. They knew their god was angry, and none would escape the wrath
of Goretusk when he was angry.
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