and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

The change had been more offensive than anything else – a slap in the face, the way the lands he had carved grooves into were simply erased. He may be a god, but he likes his homages, likes to leave Beqanna tinged inexorably with his presence. Of course, he’s done more than well with that with his children, populating her land until few lines walk untouched by his blood.
But children only do so much.
Besides, all his children are ultimately disappointments, they fade into obscurity, they fall.

So for a new legacy, he carved out this land, this sick and strange place.
(He ignores that his magic is still slightly warped, curdled – it works for him, enough.)
He has already grown restless within its confines, unused to living amongst such company – he prefers solitude for the majority of the time, whether it’s in his lair (a distant place, away from here) or in space, where time ceases to exist and there’s only stars, infinite and aching.
(He’ll return there, soon enough. Stardust leaks into his veins and he craves home.)

He has been a poorly king in some ways – he has not gone out to recruit. He prefers them to come to him – he makes his presence known, and they come. It has been this way as long as he can remember.
He is a thing to be found. He is not one who seeks them out.
He watches the girl, young and foolish, as she walks into the lion’s den.
And then he smiles, and walks to her, his step easy.
“Hello,” he says, “and welcome to Pangea.”

c a r n a g e