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The slow but heavy steps of the brutosaur echoed in the caravan, which held God King Rastakhan and his most trusted, Prophet Zul. The royalty and his old friend were on their way to a meeting of utmost importance between the Zandalari and another troll tribe, where discussions of a possible alliance between the two clashing troll races would take place. Zul and Rastakhan were residing inside the caravan for the ride, where they were closed off from the rest of the world by burgundy drapes. Sitting across from each other, Zul had nothing to do but observe his king’s sleeping form. Zul had seldom seen Rastakhan so relaxed. The pressure of Rastakhans crown, both figuratively and literally, was weighing him down as of late. Zul had hoped to catch up with his old friend once they set off to their destination, but seeing Rastakhan breathing slowly while laying on a pile of soft pillows had nevertheless made Zul find comfort in the silence.

Zul tried to focus on the fly that was flying around in circles in the corner, but he found it difficult to fixate on anything else other than the larger person directly in front of him. The slow rocking sensation of the Brutosaur’s steps and how the drapes colored the small space they rested in a deep red did nothing to help Zul out of the almost trance-like sensation he felt. What caught his eye at first was the garments in which the king was adorned with. Armor and embroidery which complemented the intricate and delicate design of what can only be worn by troll royalty could be seen all over Rastakhan and the crown, which sat loosely on the sleeping troll’s head, helped frame his face. The prophet observed how Rastakhan’s lips were slightly parted, his tusks which were decorated with golden rings stuck out proudly. Zul’s eyes trailed down to Rastakhan’s torso. The beautiful colors of his clothing complemented his skin tone. Zul could do nothing more than watch as Rastakhan’s torso rose and fell as he inhaled and exhaled, deeply consumed by the dream realm. He dragged his eyes further down and watched as a wide and muscular torso, muscles in which he had never seen another troll have, became a thinner waist and hips, which became strong and burly thighs. Thighs that could, without a doubt, crush Zul’s skull easily. The thought had amused and terrified the older troll at the same time, but the more he looked at the god king’s strongest assets, the more those feelings began to shift to something that turned more and more uncomfortable.

Zul could not put a finger on what that feeling was, but he quickly dismissed that thought.

Loa have mercy, Zul thought to himself, as he tried to unclench the growing feeling in his heart and his stomach. He felt his cheeks darken.

An announcement from one of the riders startled Zul, making his conflicting emotions evaporate:
“We will arrive at our destination very soon, your majesty and his prophet,” a troll male’s voice came from outside.

Zul hoisted himself up from where he was comfortably sitting, moving over to his friend.
“Rastakhan, old friend, wake up,” he said as he shook Rastakhan’s shoulder.

It was no use. Rastakhan as at times a heavy sleeper, which was hilarious to the god King, but not so much for his prophet, who at times like these had to deal with his antics. Zul wondered what he could do to wake the powerful troll.

“You expect me ta carry ya, ya big oaf?” Zul grumbled, lightly hitting Rastakhan on the head.

It was a playful bat on the head and it helped wake up the sleeping monarch. Had it been any other troll, they would have had their head properly cut off and had their bloodline ridiculed as long as Rezan lived. But nothing of that sort would befall prophet Zul. A sharp inhale came from the king’s nose, accompanied by a grumble as he rose from his slumber. He glared at whoever dared to disturb him, but Zul couldn’t help but notice his face growing softer as his eyes laid upon the pale troll. He perched his head atop his hand, which made the crown slide down to the soft pillows beneath his head, and sent his prophet a small smile. The feeling which Zul could not identify came back with full force. He felt it on every inch of his body, from his ears to the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes. Zul had a hard time trying to distance himself from Rastakhan, the rocking sensation of the burotsaur tempting him to just give in and relax completely as Rastakhan does, and relax within himself.

Zul felt blood Rush to his face. He internally cursed his pale complexion.
Masking his conflicted emotion behind a scowl, he placed the king’s crown on his head, albeit a bit forcefully, making it cover his eyes as the prophet got up to keep his emotions in check.
Zul turned away from Rastakhan. His lazy smile made him feel strange emotions that he was not ready to confront yet. Never.

“We be arrivin’ very soon, my King,” Zul said as he opened the drapes, the mood in the caravan too intimate, too much to deal with.

He heard a whine from behind him. He turned his face to see that the light seeped into the closed off caravan, hitting the god king directly in the face. Zul stepped out of the caravan, repressing the want to stay there alone with his king for the rest of the day.