no matter what they say, I am still the king
It’s the same old shit, just a different century. Isn’t that how it always goes? War breaks out, battles are fought, the same things are always tousled for. It’s land, it’s a crown, it’s a poorly begotten hate. What truly is important enough to fight for anymore? He remembers his time of chaos and blight - setting lands on fire just to see them burn, manipulating souls just to see what he could make them do. His proclivity for mischief will never truly falter, but perhaps now it is less bent on mass-destruction, and more tuned towards the miniscule moments. When the world is your oyster, sometimes the fine grains of sand are more enjoyable to pluck than the meaty pearl in the middle.
Again he finds himself in the same old place, just a different season. Summer is here now, something he has never preferred but must endure nonetheless. How many summers has he scorched underneath? How many more must he see through? Summer, it seems, is the best time for play-things. The summer heat that starts off languid and breezy - the citizens of Beqanna stretching out in the sunwarmed lands. And by the end? By the end there is stir-crazy, sun-crazy stretches of time - where there are ripe souls to pluck and play with.
And so he stands lazily in a copse of trees drinking in the little shade it offers, his eyes trailing the horizon for his next grain of sand.
(now, the storm is coming in)