1There are many beautiful things in the world. Innumerable poets and artists have made countless impotent attempts to contain the sights flaunted by nature. And for all the beauty in his kingdom under the stars he could not possibly care less. Rather, he savours the private bliss of conquering the opposition, knowing that there is no one under the stars that can hold a twig to his Yggdrasil, a spark to his Sol. Though there was once a time when he cared none for beauty and all for duels and precious bonds, but those days are gone.
Duels—the warring of his subjects against another—are the stage upon which his captivating cruelty and sickening wit are displayed. The days of "for fun" have since past, long ago becoming nothing more than a faint echo washing out towards oblivion in the mind that may not be completely sane.
And there is a satisfaction in these duels, like there always was, but this is a perverse switch—blind euphoria replaced by a reenforcement that he is that close to being a god.
There comes a time when almost all the resistance is gone, the undesirables nearly choked from the kingdom under the stars. A move towards sublime silence brings only a hollow relief, however, for hordes chant accolades at all hours so that their mindless worship becomes a single, numb voice supplicating for his attention. And it never does reach him.
He is borne upon an unspeakable fiend whose origins lie in nameless secrets of the smelting of the land as he rides out on what will be one of his last raids. He clears most of the rabble himself, becoming cool terror incarnate treading upon the cracked earth. The rest of the forces stand in a wide ring around the encampment to keep any from escaping. This is his time, they know.
Down to only three rebels now, he takes two out without a thought tributed to them. He moves closer. A Dream Sprite cowers in a ravine, trembles as she faces the Prince of Darkness on a predestined charge to purge the refuse from his realm for the sake of a sole power someone like her will never so much as dream of. She does not plea. A waterfall fills the silence. Gossamer wings are shred by indifferent stone, leaving trails of filmy residue that are quickly washed away. Hands wrap around a nude torso. Locks of brown hair and harsh water cascade over blue shoulders.
There is beauty that he is killing. In his kingdom under the stars are many natural wonders. But he does not care.
With a flick of a wrist a saber crafted from aerolite by the hands of a forgotten smith falls and ends one more pitiful existence. But her body makes one last attempt to move him, dazzling points of glittering light ascend to a place he does not care to know, or never will know.
He turns on his black heel and surveys the site. A wind picks up, sends a maelstrom of embers whipping over the craggy land. The result of his quest for beauty is carnage. Obliteration. Silence.
Nothing appears to have dwelt upon the land for generations.
This is beautiful, he knows. The destruction of the feeble on his climb to power is as glorious as any mountain peak wreathed in lucent crowns of mist or a field redolent in countless luminous flowers.
There was a time when he was different, and a time when he was not that much different.
Beauty did not matter before. Now it does.