|Flogo soldiers at rest|
On moonless nights, when the wind goes completely still, the burlap surrounding them starts to rustle. Accompanied by a sound no man has ever heard, arms fashioned from prickly boughs tear through the sides, ever so slowly. Then root-like feet emerge from below as gnarled legs extend. The bodies rise up, up. Fully realized, a Flogo stands 18 feet tall with an arm-span of 10 feet.
In perfect formation, they march into the darkness in search of .... a leader?
I'm going to learn how to communicate with them (they already let me take their picture), and when the White Walkers show up, I'm going to be heading up these sonsabitches. To hell with that blond chick and her dragons. The O'Brien's coming out with her Flogos army (I'm going to need a really serious outfit).
Lest any portion of the readership doubt me, these mother effers look the same whether you're coming or going.
You with us? You're either with us or against us.
So, you with us?
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