Rally the Troops, ‘Tis a Call to Arms!

The Minotaur General looked down upon his miniature battlefield. With his knotted fists firmly planted on the edge of the map he let his broad chest and horns cast a dark shadow over his enemy’s army. There were many darkened tokens calculably placed, each one signifying a unit of combatants. His eyes glowered at the employment of the adversary’s troops.

A golden ring tapped pursed lips as his head jerked to gaze at his less than meagre forces across the map. “At least the light shines upon them.” He rumbled.

He imagined his skull having diminutive dents from the assault of unfavorable outcomes within his thoughts.

“So much territory to defend,” he snorted, “I have almost nothing to my arsenal.”

Thick leather armor straps creaked as he let out a heavy sigh of beleaguerment.

It was his desire to be alone when contemplating maneuvers. Being unaccompanied allowed his conversation be unfettered by inane chattering of subordinates. He knew more disorganization in the war tent would only cause losses on the warfront.

“If only I had reinforcements.” He let his eyes close. He imagined an overwhelming crush of red token allies consuming the blue army. It made his lips curl in mock gratification.

‘There are no obstacles, there are only opportunities’ an old wise saying resurfaced.

His eyes snapped open; an epiphany like a clarion call pierced his dispiritedness.

Turning his monstrous torso he snatched a large gnarled battle club from the corner and stomped out of the tent. He knew who he had to call upon. He knew from the beginning of meditative solitude what he needed to do. He just needed to come to the conclusion by himself.

“Sticky! Chewie! Sharpen claws! Stretch wings! These damn seagulls not win to-day! With animals on island as friends, we make war!”

Number 12 held aloft his weapon triumphantly whilst standing upon a portion of cleared forest floor. Leaves, rocks and sticks haphazardly strewn about were crushed beneath his hooves.