Strong, handsome, powerful - they were admired,
worshipped.
Not so, Pluto.
Face and form hideous to behold he ruled the nether world. Not
admiration, nor worship were his. Rather, fear!
His appearance aroused it. He stood huge over the poor
supplicants who pleaded for release from this, the eternal
prison. A skin of leathery hue, plated in metallic scales that
gleamed in light of candle. Misshapen form, twisted, broken. A
face of ghastly white, lined with deep marks that twisted with
his thoughts, pitted with pock marks. He projected fear and
evil. His kingdom reinforced it. The tales and rumors that
spread among men, and even on high Olympus, did little to
dissipate that fear.
Only his eyes, often hidden by lowered lids, belied his
appearance. For they reflected the pity and compassion in his
soul.
At his invitation the great castle filled with revelers. Yet,
in their presence or alone, Pluto had no feeling of belonging.
His was a lonely world, a world apart.
Companionship, friendship, understanding - these were denied
him.
And, also, love.
Pluto brooded.
2. The White Owl
Demo suddenly heard thrashing, mixed with the distress call of
a bird. Rounding a bend in the mountain trail he quickly
stopped. Before him was a scene of impending tragedy.
An owl, beautiful, with white feathers, struggled. Enmeshed in
a clever trap it was unable to break free. A cunning net had
extended above the narrow ravine, and the bird had triggered an
ingenious mechanism that released the net.
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