he spent a while in the saints' (former) lands, finding none of them there. it was a time to celebrate. he hastened up the slope of the mountain, yipping like a child, kicking his heels behind him.
when he reached the summit, aditya released a howl, joyous and liberated.
the whole hinterlands was his—or so it seemed.
everyone he'd met here had harbored a connection to the saints in some way. he looked out over the land, mourning in some capacity the loss of his friend, pharaoh. had he gone, too, or was he still somewhere out there?
one old man did not rule the world.
so why did it feel so?
he let the wind pick up his pelt, cooler than the surface of the world, up here in the lofty air.
when he reached the summit, aditya released a howl, joyous and liberated.
the whole hinterlands was his—or so it seemed.
everyone he'd met here had harbored a connection to the saints in some way. he looked out over the land, mourning in some capacity the loss of his friend, pharaoh. had he gone, too, or was he still somewhere out there?
one old man did not rule the world.
so why did it feel so?
he let the wind pick up his pelt, cooler than the surface of the world, up here in the lofty air.
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