❝ setepenre ❞

How they'd managed it, he'd never know. But since his arrival in this place, his supposedly peaceful days had been filled with terribly catchy and obscenely adorable music of little Japanese girls.           "A dream." He concludes, preferring not to think this queer "afterlife" capable of such intricately created torture.

Water. It's the source of all life on this planet, and the birthplace of his lands. His empire had drawn life from the banks of the Nile, lasting for thousands of years before and after his reign as pharaoh. But what he sails on now can hardly be considered water. The long and elegant wooden trireme -- plated on its edges in pure, shimmering gold that catches even the dim light which sneaks past the clouds and gleams in the truest splendor of its king -- is a jarring sight against this desolate backdrop. It's the truest taste of the word "archaic," and yet for however out of place this beautiful vessel is it seems more like the final gleam of hope as the evening sun sets on the horizon. Towards its back is a seated figure. He stays atop a golden throne, lined with plush red linens and glittering gemstones, with his own eyes of amber fixed out upon the horizon. For a man recently awoken from death to such a terrible place, he seems at ease: peaceful, even. The echoes of a smile lingers on his features, eyes half-lidded as the ship rows itself forward. Yet even below deck, however, there are no others aboard this vessel. The trireme rows itself with an invisible force, one with promise of magic.                          And it originates from him. For the very instant his hand is raised to the still and dank air, the unseen rowers halt their motions. He stands from his perch, right hand coiled around a black whip that he holds lazily to his side as he makes his way to the rail. Another individual is nearby, made clear by the rustling of vegetation by the riverside, so he calls out into the desolate landscape.           "Have you a thirst, friend?" He doesn't mean water, either.