The King began to make his way up a long, tall spiral staircase with me and my Uncle thrown over his muscular shoulders. The stairs were clearly meant for someone normal-sized, so he skipped three or four stairs with every step, his humongous bare feet barely able to stand on each small stair. After about five minutes, we reached the top.
How many stories down was that dungeon? I asked the King.
Fifteen, the King said, I want my personal prisoners deep below the ground, with no chance of escape. The ground is filled with hard stones the only way for someone to escape is up these stairs, and theres guards posted everywhere.
The King started walking down a long hallway, with bright torches lining both sides. The walls were lined with paintings of the King, most of them with him wearing little to no clothing. Someone whod never seen the King before mightve assumed that the artist had exaggerated the Kings olympic physique, but as he carried me down the hall I could see all of his huge, developed muscles flexing in all their glory.
How many stories down was that dungeon? I asked the King.
Fifteen, the King said, I want my personal prisoners deep below the ground, with no chance of escape. The ground is filled with hard stones the only way for someone to escape is up these stairs, and theres guards posted everywhere.
The King started walking down a long hallway, with bright torches lining both sides. The walls were lined with paintings of the King, most of them with him wearing little to no clothing. Someone whod never seen the King before mightve assumed that the artist had exaggerated the Kings olympic physique, but as he carried me down the hall I could see all of his huge, developed muscles flexing in all their glory.