lord, I fashion dark gods too;
The dark god hasn’t crossed into a kingdom that wasn’t borne from his magic in ages.
They were never the same, since the valley, and even though he’s tried to recapture the feeling in other lands, everything comes up short. He knows part of the valley’s nostalgic allure was his own then-mortality – the world looks a certain way when death and obscurity sit on the horizon, and quite another way when godhood bursts inside of you like dying stars.
Ironic, perhaps, that the very thing that made him keeps him from recapturing such a small magic.
Pangea was different, of course, that land had been a creation, a thing fallen and risen and now fallen again. Even then, he had not spent more than a year or two there, coming by now and again to check that it was being ruled appropriately.
The Pampas are…fine. Everything feels a bit too lush, the Edenic air of the place thick enough to choke on. He prefers rougher things, has a habit of roughening what he touches, though he leaves the place alone for now. He had not come here to redecorate the place, but rather, to welcome its leader.
He takes his time finding her, weaves his way through the place. He cannot resist blighting one spot, carving a symbol of his in the dead grass, a small joke that may go entirely unnoticed.
He finds her, in time, but does not yet touch her, even though the urge floods across him, a heady desire that has not waned despite the length of their acquaintance.
“Ryatah,” he says, “it’s good to see you as a queen once more.”
He knows, of course, that they’ve picked different titles here. But his kingdom days – those mortal, ever-long days – knew only kings and queens and little else, and old habits due hard.
c a r n a g e
@[Ryatah]