Lion Head Mesa royal falcon flown unto the sun

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he was soppin' wet, feet caked in bright red mud, pawpads tired form the waddling walk to the valley of royals. he hadn't had breakfast, had not caught medusa afore she rose that morn', and had to leave @Midas home else the poor boy catch his death in this weather.

gucci appreciated how it all made him appear appropriately miserable.

the tomb had fermented a rich, nauseating smell. he caught a peek; the former queen looked nothing like he remembered, more shape than person. eventually, ramesses would be the same. a memory of power, instead of fickle, failable man he was in life.

gucci felt a migraine comin'.

he wondered how many here would let themselves remember the reality of ramesses the second, first pharaoh of akashingo, of the lion-headed mesa it stood upon, of the slithering river and the hunting meadows-

the reality o' man driven by want for fame, for servants, for fucktoys, for a legacy that had scattered to four cardinal directions and left akashingo faltering beneath the rule of children not even third in line for the throne.

gucci shut his eyes, blinded by piercing pain through his skull. the tears were a nice touch.

he had to admit - he'll miss the bastard, and akashingo as it was before grief and treachery.