what's a king to a god; all

[Carnage]

and lord, I fashion dark gods too;

The stars call out.
They call, and he feels it in his bones – a distinct ache, dust in the marrow – and he is ready to answer. He is a god, remember – not a king, though he took that title, paraded it about for a while as he stalked these restless hills.
The land is growing stronger, plants coming through the dust. He has no doubt they will grow more when he is gone, excised like a cancer. It was a canyon, once, and may be again someday.
(Or maybe not, maybe the earth here is salted, the plants with wither and die. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care to read much of the future, finds it takes the fun out of things.)

He has been stuck too long in this place, made of sick magic and disgust, and the stars call, and call, and call.
He no longer ignores the cries. He sends out a summons to the few who remain, call them forth. These few stone-eyed wayfarers too proud and furious to bow to the new rules lain upon them.
“Pangea,” he says to them – though perhaps he addresses the land itself, as well – “I will be leaving soon.”
A breath. Inhaled, exhaled. He won’t need to breathe, soon. He can almost taste the nothingness. The lull of space and darkness.
“As no one has been particularly exemplary, I’m asking you, now, to find a new ruler. Make the case of why you should rule, or nominate someone else.”
He offers this to them on a platter. This morsel. Usually he picks a leader, often arbitrarily, but he knows so few here. He knows only their faces, and little else.
So, he asks, speaking loud enough to drown out the call of the stars. For now.

c a r n a g e

tl;dr
Carnage is looking to step down and fly out into outer space hiatus and is looking for someone(s) who is interested in taking over Pangea in his wake, so please nominate yourself. or someone else. or he can just fly off and have anarchy. you can vote for that too.