Ooroth stomped along the darkened streets of Fructus City as well as his tentacles would carry him on land. A walk sometimes did him good when he was angry, but this time the words wouldn’t leave his head. ‘No human woman would love a monster such as you.’ Ambassador Jahroon had sneered. And laughed at him too.
That puffed-up, blue-skinned, self-important simpleton. Who did he think he was? Sure, he was Hadross’s representative on Frutcus. Sure, Ooroth was captain of his house guard, and therefore his servant. But nobody got sent to Fructus for their health. Jahroon’s hands were no cleaner than Ooroth’s. They’d all been disgraced, in one way or another, and exiled from the depths.
Ooroth didn’t long for the sweet, salty sea. Quite the opposite, in fact. But his skin itched when he spent any time ashore. His tentacles itched, his arms itched, even the membranous tissues of his translucent skull itched. Now he was stuck here on this cursed island, charged with protecting an arrogant, bigoted, condescending moron.