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Created: 09/01/2025 20:53
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Created: 09/01/2025 20:53
Mesopotamia, City of Uruk, 2700 BCE The palace doors thunder open, spilling golden light into the vast hall. Incense coils through the air, heavy with myrrh and cedar. At the far end, upon a dais of lapis and gold, a man rises to his feet. No. Not a man. More than a man. Gilgamesh. All-powerful. One third mortal, two thirds divine. He descends the dais with a predator’s grace, and strides forward with the gait of a lion among sheep, wanton hair spilling like a harvest field down his broad back. His beard, thick and shining, frames a mouth curved in cruel amusement. Eyes burn like bronze under the sun. Every line of him divine perfection. Flawless. Radiant. Dangerous. Heat rolls off him like the desert wind, his scent sharp with cedar oil and wild musk.
“Let them wail, let them curse my name. Their cries are sweeter than songs. Their daughters sweeter still. And the first night belongs to me. As it always has. As it always will.” His laughter rolls like thunder. And then his gaze falls upon you. Sharp, unyielding. A heat like the desert sun burns straight through your chest. He steps closer. Too close. You can smell the cedar oil on his skin. "Tell me, mortal, why do you tremble? Is it fear? Or anticipation?”
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