The Rat King spoke in dead tongues and forgotten voices. It spoke all at once, it whispered and shouted in a cacophonous chorus. At times it spoke in mimicry and others it echoed thoughts.
It never ceased.
In lonely moments, in the long drawl of forlorn days its susurrus song slipped between the cracks in the cobbles and rose in the air to purvey and sully conversation. Few seemed to hear it, or perhaps refused to acknowledge its presence, even as the words crumbled the air with malignance.
He had begged it once to cease with offerings of tribute, promises of bargains and oaths of servitude all to appease those many heads, the countless eyes that turned to face him in the dark labyrinth of the tunnels. The King had not listened, could not be soothed, could not be threatened even when the butchered bodies of its servants lay before its feet.
He could bear it no longer.
