In the dark and cold abyss, The Old King struggles against his bonds. His followers had betrayed him, cast him aside in favor of a brash, young leader. He breaks free, the container shattering beneath a withered yet still mighty frame. His desiccated eyes adjust to the gloom and sees naught but stone, vermin and silence.
He begins to claw and slash at the stone, carving furrows into the wall. His might is unmatched and his fury is unquenchable. They didn’t know how strong he was,didn’t know the extent of his strength. He knew he would escape soon and make them all suffer for their transgressions.
But then: a light. A piercing white gleam in the dark. His tiny vermin companions scatter as a large stone rolls away, wedged by a powerful metal bar. The Old King shrinks back into the shadow, ready to gauge the allegiance of these new invaders. They stumble forth, tiny and mewling in anxiety. He observes them and perceives them to be fledgling sorcerers. Why else would they possess such strange clothing, the ability to cast light from their very heads (a third eye perhaps) or speak such strange tongues? One of them possesses an artifact that he presses to his own eye, as he thrusts it around seeking validation. They mutter and chatter and run their fingers over the furrows the King had carved in the stone.
He decides to make himself known. His muscles creak in disuse yet he is mighty. He stumbles out of the shade, his regal wrappings faded and muted yet still possessing an aura of awe and majesty.
The newcomers stare back at him, jaws slack and pale complexions highlighted with an almost comical essence of disbelief. The Old King chuckles with rotted vocal cords and a puff of dust emerges from his ancient innards. These sorcerers seem to not know what they have wrought for invading his chamber, for they simply gaze back. The King frowns at the black metal and glass device and rips it from one of them, his grip crushing the metal (and bone for he reached a bit too far) beneath his cracked hands. The sorcerer kneels in pain and doesn’t even bother to regenerate his hand. Pathetic.
These newcomers with their odd artifacts and tools are not worthy to be graced by his presence. There are two more and he dispatches of them easily. Their innards decorate his chamber and he knows he made the right decision. They were not worthy to serve him and he deems it good practice for his forthcoming wrath. He remarks that they were useful for helping to preserve his strength as he staggers out of the opening.
The corridor is long but it gives him time to remark on which God he will appease to and assist his wrath. The mighty Eye of Ra warms his old bones for the first time in days… or perhaps longer…And yet… all is not right. The mighty monument he himself had commissioned is layered in dust, grime…. age.
Indeed the sun seems.. weaker. He senses the waning strength of the Gods immediately. Before The Old King lies a miniature village, more of the metallic artifacts lie strewn about, protected by the raging winds by canvas wrappings. He deems these whelps to be siphoning the strength of the Gods to power these strange devices. The Old King summons what little strength he has to destroy the devices.
He wraps part of the canvas around himself and he feels good for what little havoc he has wreaked. More to come.
Whatever this new world holds will fall to his power. He knows this and he staggers out into the raging sands seeking what may lie beyond. He enjoys imagining what atrocious miracles the Gods will enable him to perform. His old muscles creak as, beneath the canvas and the regal wrappings he smiles for the first time in centuries.