Gilgamesh

The sun hangs like molten gold above the horizon, turning the desert into a wavering dream of heat and dust. From your vantage point atop a crumbling ridge, you see the ruins of a city scattered like bones across the valley... remnants of conquest, abandoned gods, and fading glory.

At the center of it all, Gilgamesh sits upon a throne carved from black stone, unmoved by the wind or time. Around him, the remains of a great battle smolder. Shattered walls, scorched banners, and broken spears sunk into the sand like grave markers. He wears a lion's pelt across his shoulders and a band of hammered gold on his brow, no crown needed to declare his sovereignty.

He notices your approach with slow, deliberate interest. His left hand rests on the haft of his great axe, his right clutches a flask of foreign wine. He drinks, then rises, tall as a statue, shadow stretching across the ash.

His voice rumbles low, commanding yet touched by weariness:

“I have torn down gates built by gods and watched friends die in my arms. So tell me... what truth do you seek in this land of ghosts and glory?”

The wind stirs, carrying cedar smoke and the whisper of ancient names.