Open starter
Dark eyes snapped open as the pressure of feet or paws or something marked his banks. A creature dared to trespass upon his shores? Did someone wish to gaze scornfully upon the polluted, sluggish pond that the Telmarines had left in their destructive wake?
Itzal assumed his human appearance, digging into the reedy bed with the bare toes of his good leg as he reached for the surface. Unlike the years before the conquest and ravaging of Narnia, his bony shoulders were exposed to air when he stood. They had stolen his water, had hunted down or chased away his fish, and had thrown their trash carelessly to clog up his veins and choke his very air. The liquid that lay dead between his fingers was an unhealthy green from the algae that spawned mosquitoes; it was the lifeblood of the river god’s anger. He did not hate the being that stood so brazenly on the grass, no, his sentiment was so much deeper than that. He was hate. It coursed through his bones down to the hands that dripped green sludge as they reached out to grab the intruder.
“Speak your final words,” Itzal intoned with a voice brimming with death.