In a tower within a tower, there sat a man who would be King. He looked like a well groomed Yeti. Most of his time was spent plotting.
Today he was struggling to compose his thoughts. For now, all his obstacles faded into a single point as he tried to find the right words. He was failing.
His room was comfortable. It was also a cage built by his ambition.
The paper, he decided, was an indulgence worth savoring. It was thin, but strong and smooth to the touch. A rare blank slate of pristine white, almost free of impurities, accessible only to the elite. Still, he knew the papers secrets and however far his fortunes had fallen, he still had the wherewithal to use it freely.
Finally his pen found its way to the page. The ink was dark.
“1. My allies see only masks.
2. The rulemakers deem me unsafe.
— In all things, I can find no Truth stable enough to hang my hat upon. I miss my hat.”
His dissatisfaction with how “Truth” rang out against the other words ran deep and haunted him. So he drew a picture:
As a student of chaos, he smiled at the notion that it might find its way to an unknown comrade. He imagined them at a bridge.