[center][h2][u]The Retired General[/u][/h2][/center]

Charles groaned and panted as he climbed the stairs of the huge tower, his knees felt like they were soon to buckle beneath him, and his bad one burned like hell. He missed his manor, but he knew that he'd dare not return there, he'd already started to see the effects of the cataclysm reaching it, dying men, beings of a madman's darkest nightmares. He had patrons in the royal family who payed for his journey to the king's court with all his books and writings, and he's quickly made his new room in the Tower like home, and grown acquainted with the king and his servant.

But hell if these stairs wouldn't be the death of him.

He sighed in relief as he saw the door to his chambers in the hallway, pulling himself up the last two stairs with the handrail before falling onto his hands and knees hard. He grimaced audibly, before lifting himself up with a popping noise from his knees. Rotating his shoulders, Charles walked into his study, gripping one of the few volumes he could manage to bring from his shelves, and sitting at his oak table, a light beige thing, a few dark knots upon it. He nabbed a sheet of paper from a nearby pile and a quill, holding open the book with his left, and the quill in his right, he began writing, some in the book, some on the paper, he began to compile what information he had saved, and what information he had gathered in his own mind, and he would stay there until he could not write any longer, and had to sleep, but he dreaded his sleep, as it would be filled of dreams of the future, dreams of death and disease, the earth shattering under his feet and nothing left to catch him. He dreaded that, but for now, he lost himself in his work, and maybe he would discover something he hadn't known before. 

He doubted that.