Perhaps RidgeDog enjoyed it a bit too much. But then again, who cares?
Who cares about the pain of the petty mortals who attempt to believe they can rule over him. It amused him, the mortals who believed they were so important, so much higher than him. That their simple lives actually meant something. The fools.
Their lives were so brief, little flickers of bright light flashing annoyingly in his eyes. Everything mattered to them so much, every horror was the end of the world, every fragment of good luck was the beginning. They worried incessantly over the tiniest things, as if a hair out place could kill them, send them plunging into oblivion.
Didn't they know how useless it was? The tiny flickers of mortal lives were indistinguishable before the glow of his existence, of his power. If he remembered what pity was, he might have pitied them. But all he found was the hysteria of their idiocy pulling his incessant grin wider.
Ridge's power sent waves of giddiness coursing through his still veins. Golden magic pulled the mortals along its flow, twisting and pushing destinies, events, lives. The power they called impossible leaving him as easily as a breath, or as it would if he had believed in breathing as anything less than a frivolous waste.
It amused him to see mortals so convinced in the fictitiousness of his magic yet clearly so fearful of his power. Oh, and exploiting those fears? That in itself was a constant, enjoyable excitement that was never the same. Not in all his years did it bore him.
Never in all his years did it present him with anything but the need, the desperate desire for more. It was a desire eagerly fulfilled. It thrilled him, having the power of the gods at his utmost disposal. It was his sustenance, his only need. The mortals would say he'd die without it. He'd say he'd go crazy. But that only makes his smile grow larger. He's already crazy. And who cares!